


Never What You Were Before

by Romiress



Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bruce Wayne is a Talon, Court of Owls, Gen, Inspired by Gotham Knights (2021), Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 63,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: Bruce Wayne is dead, and Gotham has moved on. Slade, for the most part, tries to stay out of it. He has enough work to do without having to take jobs near the Bats.Until Red Hood calls him in to help, refusing to explain what he's found.Maybe Wayne isn't as dead as he seems.--Heavily inspired bythe first Gotham Knightstrailer.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne & Slade Wilson, Jason Todd & Slade Wilson
Comments: 276
Kudos: 485





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome... to another fic! This is one I've had in the wings since more or less the moment the GK trailer dropped, because the idea is... tantalizing. Thanks so much to Kalech and OkayAristotle, my enablers, who've been giving me the eyes emoji every time I talk about it.
> 
> I plan to rotate back and forth between this and Make an Omelette, depending on what the mood is.
> 
> As always, feel free to join us over on [discord](https://discord.gg/kYvx6cd) for update notifications, chapter discussion, fanart, and fanfic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular fic will have some upsetting content, primarily in the past tense (IE: How Bruce ended up in the state he's in). If you have anything in particular you're worried might come up, feel free to reach out to me and I should be able to let you know if it will (or at least keep an eye out for it myself and mark chapters it's included in appopriately).

When Billy calls to let Slade know he has a job, he immediately knows something's up with it. After all, Billy doesn't usually _call_ for jobs. Normally he just sends them along, and the fact that it warrants a phone call indicates there's something more to it.

Billy doesn't leave him wondering for long.

"They made an effort to hide their identity, but only a perfunctory one. I suspect they were in a hurry, but I traced it back to Red Hood relatively easily."

Red Hood. Jason Todd. The most... _morally open_ of the entire Bat clan, and the one the most likely to use Slade's services seriously. He's worked with Hood before, usually in situations where they were in the same place at the same time with the same objective anyway, but Jason's never actually _hired_ him. Not like this.

Slade wonders to himself who's managed to earn Jason's anger so much that he's willing to cross that line with Deathstroke, of all people, and accepts the job immediately.

Even if it _is_ in Gotham.

Jason Todd looks very different from how Slade remembers him. He's older, for one. He was always a bit too old for his years, and now how he looks actually matches up to how world-weary he is. He's also put on some weight—when he was younger, Jason seemed perpetually undersized from a childhood of malnutrition, and now there's not a person on the earth (save, perhaps, for some particularly intent grandmas) who would call him malnourished.

"Long time no see," Slade says as he settles in opposite Jason. They've got a table in a bar, not particularly private, but then Slade doubts they'll be saying anything too specific anyway. Jason's obviously gone to great lengths to make himself more discrete, a hoodie pulled up to hide his face, and when he turns to look at Slade head-on, he sees why: he's got a large scar running diagonally along his cheek.

Slade doesn't have to guess how he got something like that.

"It's been a while," Jason agrees, his eyes sweeping obviously over Slade. Slade's gone almost the exact opposite way Jason has: where Jason's tried to be discreet and come out looking suspicious, Slade's acting like everything's perfectly normal. He's making no effort to hide his eye patch or any of his scars. He's just a perfectly ordinary guy, and fuck anyone who looks at him too long.

"Lets cut straight to the chase," Slade says, tapping his fingers on the table to draw Jason's attention away from inspecting him. "You said you've got a job?"

"It's private. We shouldn't discuss it here."

"And no one's listening," Slade retorts. The bar's half-full, and the chatter's loud enough that no one listening in is going to be able to hear much of anything. "I assume you know how to talk around things. People have jobs, you know."

Jason grunts. He doesn't get it, and never did. Slade _likes_ doing meetings like this in public, because it keeps the likelihood of someone trying to pull a fast one on him to a minimum. As long as Jason doesn't announce _I need you to murder so-and-so_ out loud, no one's going to pay them any attention.

"The job's nearby," Jason says after a moment. "I'll be going with you."

Slade normally has a _hard no_ to having people tag along, but he knows that he and Jason work well together, and he's not quite willing to toss the job away over it anyway. He hasn't had a decent job in more than a week, Jason knows the kind of money he's expecting, _and_ Jason's good for it courtesy of the ol' Wayne moneybags.

"So?" Jason prompts, apparently in a hurry.

"Sounds fine. You've been light on the details, though. We meeting up tonight?"

"Right now," Jason insists. "You can come in your street clothes, and I'll explain what's going on there."

Oh, he doesn't like _that._

"In daylight?" Slade says, already getting to his feet and dropping some cash on the table. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Jason confirms.

Jason makes no attempt to explain as they leave the bar. He has a bike parked not far away, and Slade goes and gets his own, following after Jason as he winds through the streets. Slade prefers to avoid Gotham where possible, but he still knows the area, and to his surprise they don't end up heading into the shitty part of town by the docks, but instead deeper into the old part of Gotham. It's all old buildings with Gargoyles looming overhead, and Slade swears there's a thematically appropriate church on every goddamned corner. The whole place is gloomy in a way that only Gotham can ever really be, and it only gets _more_ gloomy when Jason pulls off the street into an alley, ever so slowly inching forward until he can safely stow his bike behind a dumpster.

"Not interested in the tour of Gotham's backside," Slade grunts, but he doesn't really mean it. Jason's been _cagey_ about what the fuck's going on, but Slade sincerely doubts it's a trap. "You going to tell me what to expect?"

Jason doesn't respond. He climbs the dumpster (Slade wrinkles his nose, the stench too strong for his senses), and then easily makes the leap to the half-extended fire escape ladder. Slade follows him up, watching Jason as he goes.

The building _looks_ normal, but after they've gone up three flights of stairs, Jason stops outside a door that has what is _undeniably_ a high-tech access pad. Slade's first impression is that it's Bat-tech, but then he spots the device protruding from the bottom and second guesses himself. _That's_ Bat-tech (complete with a little bat logo on the side), meaning Jason's broken in somewhere and... what? Decided he needed help? Found himself out of his depth?

Slade doesn't have the answers right then, but he'll be damned if he isn't getting them soon.

It's only once they're inside, the door closed tight behind them, that Jason talks. They're in a completely empty hallway, the walls unadorned metal. It looks unfinished, like whoever built the building couldn't be bothered, and Slade suspects it's supposed to be an access hallway to the buildings inner workings.

Or not.

"You know the Court of Owls?"

"Familiar," Slade confirms. "This one of their hideouts?"

"It was. They've been causing trouble for the Bats, so I offered to help track them down and figure out what was going on. I think they were probably less bothered about my _methods_ being an issue considering the Court's goons are all undead, so they let me off the leash on this one."

Slade wasn't entirely sure of the current situation between Jason and the rest, but that one comment more or less seals the deal. He's known Jason was working _with_ them, but apparently they still have their differences of opinion about lethality.

"And you found something you can't deal with," Slade says with a snort, "which is why you got me."

"More or less," Jason confirms, "but not the way you think. There's a Talon left I'm trying to catch, and... well, it's a lot easier killing them than catching them."

"Just kill it and bring it back," Slade points out. "Best of both worlds. You trying to interrogate it?"

Something that might be anguish flickers across Jason's face, but only for a moment. It's the best warning Slade gets for what to come.

"Come on," Jason says simply, gesturing for Slade to follow without offering any answer to Slade's question.

They wind through the hallways, passing door after door—some closed, some hanging open—and Slade spots a few dead (if you can count them as dead, anyway) Talons here and there. There's been a lot of fighting, and Jason's done a good job of it, which makes him not only needing Slade's help, but being able to go and get Slade to provide that help that much more perplexing. When they stop, it's outside a closed door that doesn't have anything particularly unique about it, and Jason nods towards it.

"I don't want any damage," Jason says, steel in his tone. "You're here, and you're getting paid, because you're supposed to be better than I am. If you can't take them, just withdraw, and they'll fall back. They're... being defensive right now. They won't pursue."

The idea of him not being able to handle _one Talon_ is absurd, and Slade rolls his eye, leaving Jason in the hallway as he opens the door and heads inside.

The room is small and relatively empty. There's some furniture, including a computer against one wall, but it's all smashed and damaged. Slade isn't sure if that's Jason's doing, or if it was already broken when he arrived. The whole place is lit by a single bare bulb just over the door, the second on the far end having apparently been shot out (probably by Jason, considering his usual tactics).

The room is also, as far as Slade can tell, empty. He's used to going by heartbeat, only the beat of a Talon's heart is so slow and ponderous while they aren't moving that they're easy to miss. Visually, he doesn't see a thing—the darkness doesn't hold him back at all—until it's too late.

Something large and dark bursts out from behind a flipped couch, faster than anything human should ever be able to go.

Thankfully, he's not human. The Talon is fast, but he's faster, and even though they're little more than a blur flying at him, Slade's already sidestepped, avoiding the initial attack and striking out to send it flying. He refuses to let himself think of it as a person as he moves, preferring to think of it as something like a security drone. Even if Talons were _once_ human, they aren't any longer. They're dead things, reanimated by the Court's awful methods. Like zombies, only entirely focused on the will of the court, and _sometimes_ a little bit smarter.

Only sometimes, though.

The one coming at him knows how to fight. Slade's still trying to take in all the details and the Talon's already pivoted, going after him without hesitation and leaving no room for error. They have claws, sharp, nasty looking things that Slade gets an all-to-close look at when the Talon tries to rake them across his face. He only just manages to get out of the way, very nearly losing his good eye in the process.

As confident as he was to start, he's seriously second-guessing his choice not to go get his gear. He parries a second blow and nearly loses a chunk of his side to a fucking _fin_ on the bastard's forearm. It reminds him of the ones the Bat's use, and he only gets as far as wondering if the Court's been copying their fashion choices before there's _another_ strike he has to deal with.

The Talon is leaving him no room to breathe. Every time Slade knocks a blow away, there's another right after it. Every time he steps back, he loses more and more ground.

Playing defensive isn't going to work, so Slade switches it up.

The Talon swings, aiming to slash across Slade's torso, and rather than stepping _away_ from the blow, he steps _into_ it. Claws dig into his side, glancing across his ribs, and the Talon is suddenly right in Slade's space. Slade slams his head forward, headbutting the bastard in the forehead, and the Talon staggers backwards, obviously stunned.

It gives Slade a few more seconds to take it in, his brain registering bright, almost ice blue eyes matched with close-cropped black hair, a mask covering the lower half of his face, and then Slade's on him. His trick's only going to work once, which means he needs to take advantage of every moment he's got. He sweeps the Talon's legs before he can recover, dropping him to the ground, and then goes down after him. He flips the Talon over onto its belly, throwing his whole weight on the bastard, and then uses his hands to grab a wrist with each hand. It's not exactly a _good_ position, but it effectively minimizes the damage the Talon can do, and he's got Jason there to help as needed.

Which gives him just enough time to really, _really_ process what he's just seen. The fighting style. The bright blue eyes. The black hair. The fucking _gauntlets._

"Am I sitting on a former Bat?" Slade asks, twisting his head up to look at the door, where Jason waits outside. Below him, the Talon snarls furiously. 

Slade means it in the simplest way possible. He means _a_ Bat. One of the pack. The herd.

The answer he gets is somehow unexpected, even if it shouldn't be.

"It's Bruce," Jason confirms. his features drawn and his voice low.

Bruce. Bruce fucking Wayne. Slade's _sitting_ on Bruce fucking Wayne, who's halfway fucking feral and out of his goddamn mind and a fucking _Talon?_ He's supposed to be fucking _dead,_ not like this.

Slade would say he needs to sit down, only he already _is._

"I just need time to kill the Court," Jason says, which elicits another round of furious noises from the Talon below him. "They can... they can control him, and I need to... to deal with that."

"I thought he was _dead?"_ Slade says, all but demanding an answer. A part of him had always doubted that Wayne had died in the explosion that was supposed to have taken his life, but not like _this._

"He was supposed to meet Alfred. He didn't show up, so we all... everyone assumed he'd died in the manor."

And somehow, the Court got him. Fantastic.

"Listen, kid," Slade snaps. "I don't know what the fuck you just got me into, but what the hell are you expecting, here? You think I'm going to just sit on him until you're done killing the _entire Court of Owls?"_

"I just need you to... secure him. You're the only one who can reasonably do it, _and_ we're willing to pay your prices. Think of it like... babysitting."

Babysitting. Babysitting a six-foot-two largely mindless corpse.

"Are you _insane?"_ Slade snaps. "This isn't a fucking puppy. Listen, no matter who he was, that person is gone. You need to put him down and let him goddamn rest."

Wayne, with all his stupid morals and his fucking _code_ would hate what he's become. He's a murderer, a glorified hitman for the Court.

He's everything he's ever hated.

"Can you do it or not?"

Slade scowls at Jason. No matter how things are playing out, money is money.

"If you help me get him set up. If I do it myself without my gear, my insides are going to become my outsides."

Jason deflates, and it's only then that Slade realizes how nervous he is. It makes Slade wonder a lot of things, like if any of the other Bats have been told.

But it isn't his business. All he has to do is keep the Talon from escaping, and he'll consider the job complete.


	2. Chapter 2

Talons have never been on Slade's favorite list of opponents. He's never fought one before—not a real one, anyway—but he understands the theory. Undead beings, largely mindless, slowed by cold and warmed by heat. Immortal, capable of healing damn near anything.

And strong.

He gets a good feel for that strength when Jason produces a pair of high-end shackles intended to hold, Slade is sure, people like _him._

Instead they go on Wayne as Slade has to use a significant amount of his strength to keep the man from escaping.

Bound from the tips of his fingers to his elbows, Wayne is significantly less of a threat, but Slade refuses to actually lift him until Jason's bound his legs similarly. His head turns out not to be an issue: what Slade thought was a thin mask is actually a rather involved part of his armor, something Slade wants to call a _muzzle._ It keeps Slade from being able to reach Wayne's mouth, but it also keeps Wayne's mouth from being able to take a chunk out of him either. It muffles any noise he makes, including the near-constant growl that's coming out of him.

Slade leaves it on; there will be time for dealing with it later.

They debate—really, argue—and decide that Slade's safehouse is a better option. For one, it's larger, with more amenities, and intended more for stays longer than a night. For another, the Bats don't know about it, a fact that seems particularly important to Jason.

Which tells Slade plenty about who's involved. Jason hasn't clued in all the Bats, if he's told any at all.

"You know the rules—" Jason starts once Slade finishes unloading the still squirming, furious Talon into his safehouse.

"I know. I can figure out what you want me to do and not. Clean him up—" Wayne's filthy with blood and gore, and Slade isn't sure how much of it is his. "—and see what I can get out of him."

Jason looks pale as he finally nods.

"I'll come back. I just need to... to investigate. To figure out what we're dealing with. Starting with that base first."

Slade makes a shooing motion, waits for Jason to get out of his doorway, and then closes and locks it behind him, turning his attention to his captive.

It's hard to know how to think about Wayne. He's dead, for one, which feels like a pretty significant hurdle to anything at all.

He's dead, and he looks it. His skin's a shade paler than it should be, like someone who hasn't been outside in a long while, and his veins are more obvious, a light blue against his skin.

He also has, in Slade's completely unbiased opinion, a lot more scars. Wayne's always had them, and maybe part of it is just that they stick out more, the flesh of the scar so pale they're almost pure white, but there just seem to be so _many._

"Alright," Slade announces, deciding that treating Wayne like he understands is probably the best policy. "You're filthy and you smell, so time to peel that armor off you so you can't stab me, and then we'll see what we can do about that."

Wayne answers with a growl.

Actually _saying_ he's going to remove Wayne's armor is significantly easier than actually doing it. For one, part of it is trapped under the restraints. For another, it's clearly intended to hold up to serious damage.

But most pressingly, Wayne absolutely _refuses_ to sit still.

The guttural growl continues almost non-stop, and Wayne seems to be doing his best to make Slade's work as difficult as possible. He's constantly squirming, moving in every way he can. Even if his hands and feet are tied, his torso physically moving around makes it difficult to get a grip on him, and Slade's attempt at cutting free part of the armor nearly ends with him stabbing himself by accident.

Slade pulls back, exhausted, and watches with no small amount of pity as Wayne squirms his way across the floor, dragging himself along like some kind of particularly pathetic worm.

Slade can't even tell if Wayne's really even _conscious._ Obviously Jason wants him to be—without question, Jason is hoping that Wayne is going to come back to himself with the correct application of kindness and maybe a teary reminder of his real name—but Slade is less hopeful. Wayne hasn't managed to speak an actual _word_ in the entire time Slade's had him. He hasn't done anything but growl, struggle, and attempt to murder everyone around him.

He hasn't talked. He hasn't acknowledged anything.

"Wayne," Slade says, squatting down just in front of where Wayne is squirming too. "Bruce Wayne."

Nothing.

"Going to need you to acknowledge me at some point."

Slade's not even clear if Wayne can hear him. Maybe he's gone deaf. Maybe something else is going on. But whatever is happening, Slade's hopes that Wayne's in there, deep down, are sinking by the second.

Bruce Wayne—the Batman, the man every criminal in Gotham feared—wouldn't be crawling around the ground like a maggot, desperate to... to get to something.

It occurs to Slade that wherever Wayne is going, it's not him, and steps out of the way, watching him go. Wayne in the room acted with clear purpose. He fought Slade with _skill._ But it feels like, second by second, he's becoming less and less _together._ He's fighting, but the fighting is more blind flailing. Like if he was fully unbound, he'd just crawl and scratch.

The feeling of it—that Wayne is degrading and becoming more animalistic and desperate—is all but confirmed when Wayne reaches the wall of the safehouse and simply starts pressing against it, as if he's trying to press his way _through_ a solid wall.

Like he needs to go to the opposite side and is too fucking stupid to figure out how to use a door.

Slade acts on a hunch, abandoning Wayne as he attempts to headbutt his way through the wall, and goes and digs through his supplies. It doesn't take long to find what he needs, returning to Wayne with a scanner in one hand.

The moment he turns it on, he's met with a furious _beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep_ that requires him to immediately adjust the settings, dialing it back to get a better reading.

But his hunch is right: Wayne's got _something_ in him. Something that's transmitting and picking up transmissions in turn.

Jason had said they could control him, but Slade assumed he meant by _ordering him around._

Not a literal remote control.

"Well, that's step one," he says, mostly to himself, and decides to cut to the chase. He double checks the seal on the doors and windows, cranks the air conditioning to maximum, and opens the freezer, loading the ice from the tray into bags.

It isn't quick, but as the temperature starts to dip in the room, he can see Wayne getting slower and slower.

Air conditioning isn't going to get the room cold enough to knock him out, but bags of ice will, and Slade drops a few on Wayne's torso, watching the brief bit of resistance before Wayne gives out.

He looks, in Slade's opinion, dead. If someone walked in on them they'd assume Wayne _was_ dead, that Slade just has a corpse sprawled out on the floor. There's nothing really about the situation that indicates he's _not_ dead, so Slade simply has to take it on faith that when he cranks the heat and removes the ice, Wayne will reanimate.

In theory.

Or maybe he's just killed him.

He uses better equipment for the next step, tracing down the source and finding it the first place he looks: the back of Wayne's neck.

There's scar there too, thick, poorly treated, and impossible to miss. There's no question in his mind that the Court's _installed_ some kind of wiring in Wayne's head.

The upside is that Slade doesn't have to find a professional surgeon to remove it, because a Talon's healing is at least as good as his is.

So he simply fetches a knife, feels for the right place, and cuts.

Ten minutes later, Slade has the Court's wiring laid out on his table, and he's carefully inspecting it as the apartment warms back up. He isn't sure how long it will take for Wayne to come back online, but he's hoping that whatever the Court is doing—a perpetually increasing signal, from what he can tell—was the main source of his distress.

Or that's what he's hoping, anyway, because the alternative is nothing pleasant.


	3. Chapter 3

Slade, of course, waits for Wayne to renimate before he calls Jason, watching his flesh stitch itself back together in a manner eerily reminiscent of Slade's own.

But the moment that's done, the blood from the surgery simply another part of the grime covering Wayne, he calls Jason without hesitation.

"Please tell me he didn't escape," is how Jason answers the phone, and Slade rolls his eye, settled back in a chair and watching Wayne. He's less frantic than he was. Mostly lying there, and Slade can't decide if it's because he's still warming up, or if the signal was the cause of his frantic, desperate escape attempts. For him, it must have felt like an air raid siren going off in his head, and now it's gone blissfully silent.

"He didn't escape. He's currently sprawled out on my floor. I need you to come back and babysit though."

"I'm busy." Jason isn't leaving room for argument, but Slade's going to make some anyway.

"Tracking down the court? I've got a better lead than you, so you might as well save time and let a professional do it."

"I need you—"

"He's tied up. You can sit and watch him while I hunt some Owls down."

Wayne moves a bit at that, the mention of _Owls_ apparently dragging him out of his stupor despite his apparent exhaustion. He turns his head just a bit, cocking it as if listening more carefully, and Slade decides to be more prudent with his choice of words.

"I don't think—"

"No one's paying you to think. On the other hand, you _are_ paying me to think. So come back here, keep an eye on him, and let me do my job."

The line is silent a long moment, and then Jason hangs up on him.

Slade knows, without question, that Jason is coming, and he's proven right when the man shows up almost twenty minutes later, looking like a storm cloud in human form. He looks ready to snap at anything, but Slade doesn't give him the chance, already dressed and ready to go, the wiring in his pocket and everything he's going to need in a bag.

He waits until he's well clear of the safehouse before he actually gets to work, tuning his equipment to read the same signal Wayne was receiving and starting to follow it back to the source.

It's not going to get him _all_ the owls, but it'll get him wherever they wanted Wayne. Probably a control center, which is just what he needs.

It's late (Slade isn't sure when the sun set, but it most definitely did at some point), so Slade pulls on his suit, ready to go well before he arrives. Unsurprisingly for the court, there's not much to look at. It's an office building the type of which there hundreds in any city of any size. A quick check of the directory lists more than fifty companies, but Slade knows how people like the Court work.

So he simply scans the directory, locates _Strigi Industries,_ a clear reference to strigiformes, the order that owls are a part of, and calls it a day.

He knows he's right. There's no question in his mind.

He enters the building via a fire door, slipping in long past when most people have gone home. There will still be security, and probably custodial staff, but Slade knows how to avoid them.

He does what he can not to put them at risk. The kind of people who own offices in places like this are rarely friendly with the staff who work the low level menial jobs for them, and Slade's gotten help more than once from someone who wouldn't _actually_ mind if their corrupt scumbag boss didn't make it in to work the next day.

Strigi Industries is clearly generic by design, intended to be indistinct. There are signs, though. There's a hidden owl in the painting on the wall once he lets himself in, and a little owl trinket on the receptionist's desk. The office appears empty, but Slade knows it's not—he can hear people moving nearby, can hear people starting to move around more and more as they see him come in.

"Knock knock," Slade calls out with a menace that has always come naturally to him. "Guess who's come to play."

There's no obvious response, but their panic is audible, and he's pleased by that.

He doesn't like the court right then. He never really has—they're overly pretentious and too convinced of their own value—but this feels different. It feels _personal._ Bruce Wayne was an enemy, someone he fought with all the time, but he was still a man of dignity. Skill. Honor.

And the Court's taken that away. They have taken away everything that was Bruce Wayne, stripped it out of him and left him nothing more than a husk.

Even if Wayne was never a friend, the insult to his memory rankles him, and he has every intention of making the court pay for it in blood.

When Slade comes through the door at them, it becomes immediately apparent that they weren't prepared for an attack on this particular office. No Talons come at him, just two or three guards (Slade isn't sure the third even counts, considering he's fairly sure it was just an office worker trying to be strong). He dispatches them without mercy, sending a head flying across the room as the workers panic, reeling away.

It isn't the lab he was hoping for. It's just an office, machinery set up to do who knows what.

There are maybe twenty people in the room, and Slade waits until there are just five left—the rest dead—before he asks his question.

"I only need one of you," he announces, well aware that he should have questioned the group more thoroughly before he started picking them off. "Which of you is going to tell me what I need to know?"

The winner is a young man, small and nervous looking, who claims he's only there because his father works for them. He, he insists, has no real loyalty to the court.

Slade doesn't really care. All he cares about is that the man knows what he's talking about, which he does seem to.

"You were trying to summon a Talon back. Explain the situation for me."

It is a test. The man might try and hide things from him, but Slade already has a pretty good idea of what to expect. If the man lies—if he tries to hide the truth—then Slade will get rid of him and grab the next in line, of those he only knocked out for _just_ such an occasion.

"The... one of the other teams lost contact suddenly, while they had Talon 397 in their possession. He's one of our... our most skilled Talons, but highly unstable, so they were concerned he'd gone rogue. We were sent to retrieve the access key, and then told to put everything else aside and pull him out by any means necessary."

It is a lot of information, both new, old, and assumed, but Slade simply nods along like he's known it the whole time.

Like Wayne being a number is something he has always known, deep down.

Maybe he has, since the very moment he first realized who he was.

"And he hasn't come back," Slade says, nudging the conversation the way he wants.

"He might be trapped, or he might be dead. We can't imagine that he's at large and hasn't come back. Even if he'd completely lost whatever remnants of his humanity he had left like we feared, he would still come. The command would be overpowering."

The wiring in his pocket feels like a lead weight, but Slade keeps his cool, his expression perfectly composed beneath the mask.

"I want the access key."

There's hesitation there, just for a moment, and then the man goes, retrieving it as Slade watches. It's effectively a USB stick, modified for security, and he hands it over without complaint. Slade has no way to confirm what it is or isn't right then, but it doesn't matter. He's already got things in mind. Already has plans.

"You have access to files on Talon 397?"

The man in front of him goes pale. He doesn't know, obviously, and he thinks he's about to die because he doesn't.

"N-no. Only the leadership would have that information. I'm just... we push the buttons. They give the orders, we don't even find out the orders until we're passing them on."

He expected as much. It means Slade's going to have to track down the _leadership_ if he wants any real answers.

Unfortunate.

"Is there a way to remove the tracker in his head safely?"

The man goes pale again, shaking his head furiously even though his answer isn't really _no._

"I don't— I don't know anything about that. It's all very... very involved. They do that where they make the Talons. That's something so far over my head—"

"I get it," Slade interrupts, looking the man over. He's scared. Good and scared.

Perfect.

"I want you to pass on a message for me," Slade starts, looming over the man. "You go back to your leaders, and you tell them that _I've_ got Talon 397. Tell them that he's mine, and if they want him back, they're going to have to fight me for him. You got that?"

It's the best setup possible, considering the situation. The leaders will think the tracker's still in Bruce, with Slade unable to remove it. They'll go after Slade, not the obvious targets: Jason and his family.

It will, in the end, buy him time, and that's all he really needs.


	4. Chapter 4

Slade doesn't arrive home a moment too soon. Jason looks to be on the verge of a mental breakdown, and Wayne's awake, curled in a corner with his legs pulled up, growling at anything that moves.

Slade ignores him. He's not attacking, which is a positive sign, and right then his focus needs to be on Jason.

"Tracked down the court with this," he says, dropping the tracker on the table. "As far as they know, it's still in their Talon. Likely don't have any life sign or vitals tracking because it would think they were dead half the time."

"Where did you even—"

"You don't want to know," Slade interrupts, because he knows Jason doesn't. "What matters is that they think it's in him, and they're probably already starting to coordinate a strike. They're going to set up a team, probably bring a bunch more talons, and come after me. They think it was entirely me involved, so hopefully they won't go poking at the rest of you Bats for a while still."

"You should have talked to me about this. Everything you just said is something we should have _discussed,_ Slade."

"You hired me. Now I'm doing my job. This buys us time, and time was _very_ much of the essence here. The whole court's going to be after him."

That makes Jason go quiet. Maybe he was too distracted by Wayne's state to think about that. To realize that just _getting_ Wayne wasn't enough.

They have to keep him too.

"...So what are we doing now?" He finally asks.

"Cleaning him as well as we can," Slade says, jerking his thumb towards the half-wild man growling at them from the corner of the room. "Then we get out of here. I have some precautions that should keep the court off our backs for a while."

Jason is stuck on step one, squinting across the room at Wayne a while before finally turning back to Slade.

"He's going to fight us. How are we supposed to wash him?"

"Like an angry cat that doesn't want to be washed. I'm not talking about getting all his armor and restraints off. I'm just talking about dunking him, scrubbing off the worst of what's on him, and then leaving. A cold bath will drop his body temperature, making him more... pliable for the trip."

Wayne obviously doesn't want a bath, let alone a _cold_ one, and once they've gotten it ready it's on Slade to force him into it. Even with the restraints, Wayne's strength makes him dangerous, and getting him into the waiting water is a real _fight._ By the time he manages, holding Wayne down until the cold makes him slow and dazed, barely awake at all, Slade's soaked too, and he grumbles the whole time as he furiously scrubs Wayne and his armor down.

The water is disgusting. He's only planning a quick wash, but he runs a second bath anyway, draining out the filthy water and trying to get more off of him. He sends Jason off to prepare the car so they can transport him, and only once he's gone does he turn his attention to the mask.

Slade had assumed it's a piece of armor, but the more he looks at it, the less certain he is. There are no obvious latches, and it doesn't loop around the back of Wayne's neck the way he thought. In fact, the more he looks, the more convinced he becomes that the muzzle—because that's absolutely what it is, no matter what the court might have called it internally—is actually _attached_ to Wayne's jaw, preventing it from being removed through all but an excessive amount of force.

"How many people did you bite that they thought this was a good idea?" Slade mutters to himself, well aware Wayne isn't going to be answering any time soon.

Slade runs water directly over the muzzle, and what comes away is stained red-brown with old blood. It takes several applications—Wayne largely unresponsive throughout, save a few brief twitches—before it comes out clean enough for Slade's tastes.

He would prefer Wayne not have _any_ dry blood caked on him, but he knows it'll have to do.

He leaves Wayne in the tub and goes to set up his final plan. The court will be coming for them without question, tracing back the circuitry to its source.

Slade is counting on it.

The moment he's done, he scoops up Wayne—no easy feat, even with his enhanced strength, because Wayne is _not_ a small man—and carries him down to the parking garage where Jason waits, locking up behind himself.

"You're just _carrying_ him?" Jason splutters when he spots him. "Someone could have seen."

"The buildings filled with people like me. Owned by organized crime, with the building filled with their members and other people who can't _legally_ just rent an apartment. All off the books. If you see someone carrying a body out, you pretend you didn't see a thing."

The face Jason makes is downright hilarious, so _scandalized_ for someone who has done the things he has. Red Hood, after all, never hesitated to hurt those who needed hurting, and kill those who needed killing. Even if he's working with the Bats now, those instincts don't go away.

Slade's counting on Wayne being slow from the cold, so he cranks the AC as high as it'll go, leaving it blasting cold enough air to make Jason shiver as he climbs into the front seat. Wayne is buckled in, but that's it, and if he reanimates while they drive, there's going to be trouble.

"Not far. Second safehouse is more secure. Shielded from outside signals, since I can't be completely sure we got everything out of him."

"You."

Slade raises an eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives and knowing Jason will read the indignation on his features anyway.

"You said _we_ got it out of him. _You_ got it out of him. You didn't even tell me there was something to remove."

"You weren't there."

"You had my number, Slade! If I'm paying you, I want to be kept in the loop."

Slade's tone turns to ice.

"There is no _if._ You are paying me. Work's already well underway."

Jason is silent for a moment, and then continues, his tone significantly more subdued.

"I _am_ paying you, and I want to be kept in the loop."

"Then I'll keep you in the loop, but you're not going to like it."

"I can handle it."

"I'm not sure—"

Behind them is the sound of a sudden explosion, and Jason twists around, staring out the rear window with his mouth open.

"What the hell was that?!"

"My old safehouse. Taped the transmitter to the top of my roomba so they'd think he was moving around in there, then rigged the whole place to blow."

"You were only alone ten minutes!"

Slade really doesn't get why Jason is surprised he's managed to do it so fast.

"The explosives were already in place. That's step one of building a safehouse: making sure I have a way to get rid of it in a hurry. Set it to go off right around the time they were all safely inside, wondering where we'd gone. Hopefully took out some Talons. Maybe some members of the court if we're lucky."

"And civilians—"

"Apartments by mine were empty. Building's half empty on a good day."

Jason isn't happy, but he doesn't protest further.


	5. Chapter 5

Slade vastly prefers the new safehouse, in part because it's more clearly intended for long term habitation. Some safehouses are good for spending a night or two at, little more than a single room and maybe a microwave. Others are the sort of places he crashes at for weeks while he waits out trouble or looks for a new job. Slade doesn't really have a single place he calls _home,_ but the new safehouse—nestled not far from Bludhaven, much to Jason's obvious annoyance—is as close as he gets.

Slade knows he's going to be there a while, and he wants to be comfortable doing so.

Billy texts him on the drive over to let him know a very large deposit has been made in one of his accounts, but Jason never acknowledges the payment, apparently too focused on shivering and checking over his shoulder at the man lying across the back seat.

Wayne's already starting to stir by the time they reach the house and get him inside, so Slade lays him out on the couch, shooing Jason away.

"You haven't slept in twenty-four hours."

"Neither have you."

"One of us is a superhuman who can go three days without sleep, Jason. Go sleep. He'll still be here in the morning."

Jason glowers, but turns away to go inspect his room anyway.

Slade's made a mental list of his priorities, and he's rifling through it as he checks the apartment for any signs of potential trouble. He wants to get the mask off. He wants to actually clean Wayne more than just dropping him in a bath. He needs to see if he can talk, or if he's even _in there._

There's a lot he needs to do, but none of it is as important as assessing Wayne. He needs to know the risks, and what Wayne is capable of, and only then can he actually deal with everything else.

Wayne's slow and sluggish when Slade pulls a chair up beside the couch, but he does get a glare and what's probably supposed to be a growl, muffled by the mask. He's awake, for sure, but he no longer seems as frantic as he was with the wiring in.

A good sign.

"Wayne?"

No response. Not a bad sign, but not a good one, either.

"Bruce?"

"I already tried," Jason calls from behind him. He's leaned up against the door frame of the guest room, staring out at the two of them. "I don't think he recognizes me, or his own name."

"Talon 397?" Slade tries, and there's a tiny movement of Wayne's head that confirms he recognizes that as much.

Fantastic. At least he can recognize his own name... even if it's not the one he _should_ be responding to.

"Seems to be aware, at least. I'm not sure how much language skill he's maintained. Seems to have regressed quite a bit, but we've only had him a day that has—"

Wayne jerks forward. It's an attempt to attack Slade, only the bindings are thick and heavy, and he's still slow. He doesn't make it to Slade, instead falling onto the floor, and the noise of protest he makes is nothing short of pathetic.

"Nice try," Slade simply says. Jason hasn't moved, watching from the door, and without looking Slade can imagine the pain on his face watching Bruce struggle to pull himself upright. "I need to know if you can understand me, because if you can't, we're going to have some trouble getting along."

He reaches down, grabbing the cuff around Wayne's wrists, and hauls him up. It's not comfortable. It's probably even painful. Slade doesn't care: he's not sure Wayne can even _feel_ pain, and the most important thing of all is establishing that Wayne _isn't_ supposed to attack anyone.

He can't. Not if he wants to get better.

Slade thinks about what commands Wayne might know. Think about the basics. How you'd train a Talon.

Slade backs off, leaving Wayne where he is, and then points over to the corner.

"Go over there." Maybe there's a command word. Something _specific_ he has to say. But right then he's hoping Wayne's able to understand something as simple as _go,_ so long as the pointing is there.

There's no response, so Slade tries again.

"Move."

He stares at Wayne. Wayne stares back, and Slade has just enough time to wonder if all Talons have eyes like that, washed out and glassy, before Wayne does finally move. It's not slow. It's a sort of awkward squatting shuffle that makes the best of what he has.

But he's moving.

Jason's sigh of relief can probably be heard three towns over, and Slade turns to him, scowling.

"You were supposed to be asleep."

"This is important, Slade. And remember who's paying you—"

"And remember who's the expert and who's the worried kid. Go to bed. He'll still be here in the morning."

And the morning after. And the one after that. Slade is under no illusions about how long it will take. The only real question is if they'll be able to manage at all. It's entirely possible Wayne _isn't_ capable of recovery. It's possible that everything that made him who he was is gone, physically removed by the court.

But he isn't ever going to tell Jason that.

He waits until Jason is gone for real, and then turns his attention to Wayne once more. The man's been still, staring up at Slade with an emotion Slade can't hope to understand. With half his face hidden, Wayne's even more impossible to read than he ever was.

"I'd like to get those restraints off you, but that only happens if I can trust you not to attack." The worst of his violence seems to have been connected to the wiring, but Slade knows it's still there. "So you're going to sleep like that tonight, and tomorrow we'll see about downgrading you to something with a bit more mobility."

He's not letting Wayne go. He's not an idiot, about to let a Talon run loose in his house.

"You've got a guest room, and you can stay in there for the night. Don't know if you sleep, but it doesn't matter to me."

Slade does need to sleep. He could go without, but every hour that goes by his abilities are diminished, and right then is the best possible opportunity for them to get some rest.

He doesn't carry Wayne. Instead, he directs him—with a lot of pointing and _move_ —into one of the side rooms. It's less furnished, not much more than a bed, but that's the best option he has.

There's also cameras in there. It's intended for hostages, but it'll work just fine for Wayne. No ways out except the door, which Slade secures behind him before checking the cameras.

Wayne just stays there, squatting inside the door, staring at nothing.

Nonresponsive without stimulus.

Slade just hopes he's not going to still be there when Slade wakes up.


	6. Chapter 6

Wayne is right where Slade left him when the door is opened, perfectly still right up until the moment he's not.

There is a brief pause, just long enough for Slade to register Wayne hasn't moved, and then Wayne lunges at him, a vicious and violent attack that might very well have disemboweled him if not for the restraints.

He falls, hitting the ground hard, and Slade moves after him, pinning Wayne down before he can try and get back up. He doesn't hold back, making absolutely sure Wayne isn't going anywhere, and of course it's right then that Jason shows up, peeking around the corner and staring at the pair of them with a look of horror that turns quickly to rage.

"You're hurting him!"

Maybe he is. Slade's pinning Wayne largely by the neck, and if he were anyone else, he'd probably be in a great deal of pain.

Wayne isn't _anyone else_ though. He's a Talon, enhanced.

He's also dead, even if Jason doesn't want to admit that to himself.

Jason comes at them, aiming to shove Slade off, but Slade's faster and Jason's acting blindly on pure, desperate instinct. He intercepts, knocking Jason aside, and in the time Jason needs to pull himself to his feet, Slade drops the bomb.

"He's dead, Jason."

Jason looks as if he's been slapped, and Slade doesn't let up.

"I know you don't want to admit it, and I'd hope to spare you by not pointing it out, but you need to face reality. Bruce Wayne is dead. The Court killed him, and they made this Talon from his remains. Maybe some of what made him who he was is left. Maybe he isn't. But you can't keep treating him like you did before. If I put my entire weight on him right now—if I snapped his neck in front of you—you know what? Nothing would happen. The moment he heats back up again, he'd reanimate. He can't be killed, not without a lot of conscious effort."

Slade wonders if that will be what happens, in the end. It's a viable option, if Wayne can't be controlled: putting him down to spare everyone from the pain of what he's become, mindless and violent.

He wonders if Jason would ever come to that conclusion himself. The look on his face—twisted with despair and horror—makes Slade think the answer is no. For someone else, maybe, but his relationship with Wayne is so painful and complicated and _desperate_ that putting Wayne down is something he'd never be able to do.

Even if it is the kindest option.

Slade turns his head away, ignoring Jason, and eases up his grip. Wayne seems to be able to feel pain and discomfort, although apparently not as vividly as an ordinary human if his reactions are anything to go by.

"I don't want to keep those cuffs on you. They limit how much you can move, and make everything difficult. But if you behave, I'll trade them out for something nicer."

It doesn't matter if Wayne behaves, because Slade's trading them out either way. The restraints he has right then are thick and heavy duty. It's impossible to remove his armor with them on, and impossible to clean him properly. Part of the reason he chose this particular safehouse was that it had better access to supplies, and Slade has just the thing in mind _._

"Stay." Slade points to the ground, and then gets up, watching to see Wayne's reaction. He does stay, thankfully, lying on the ground where he is, staring (glaring, maybe?) up at Slade.

Slade turns to Jason, studying his expression. Hurt, yes. But he's not fighting, not taking a swing at Slade. He's angry, but it's the kind of anger that's eating _himself_ up inside, rather than turning outward.

"Watch him. He seems to respond well to one word commands. I need to go get something."

He half expects Wayne to try something while he's gone, so he keeps his work short. The storage room has plenty in it, but Slade's perfect memory lets him find what he's looking for almost immediately: a pair of slim, magnetic-controlled cuffs. It takes a bit longer to find the second set, half buried, and then he just needs to grab the tools to attach them. If they're capable of being pulled off, Wayne will, so he needs to be a lot more _thorough_ in attaching them.

Wayne is still on the floor when he returns, and Slade opts to send Jason away before he gets down to the messy work of changing out his restraints. Jason would be a help, without question, but the look on Jason's face also makes it just as clear how mentally distressed he is by the proceedings.

He's slept, but Slade doubts that he's _rested._

"Have you talked to Grayson about all this? Or any of the others? Pennyworth?"

Jason's silence is an obvious no.

"Go talk to them. If you don't, they're going to wonder what happened to you. Come up with a story to tell them if you're not going to tell them the truth."

"I can't tell them the truth. I can't. Not until—"

He doesn't have to say it. He can't say a thing until he knows if he's bringing Wayne back to the family or not.

If they can't—if he can't recover—Slade wonders what Jason's end game is. Will he keep him alive forever, restrained with regular visits to keep him company? Will he just always keep that secret from them, to spare his family the pain?

He should comfort him, Slade registers. Jason might _act_ old at times, but he's still very young. He's lost—and found again—his father. He needs comforting.

But Slade has never been the comforting sort, so he makes do.

"Go talk to them. Even if you can't tell them, it'll be good for you to hear from them. This is literally what you're paying me for, so let me handle it."

Jason stares at him for a long, long while, so long that Slade's starting to wonder if he's even going anywhere. It seems to take forever before he nods and turns away, leaving Slade behind to deal with the mess.

Slade just hopes he can get it done before Jason comes back poking his fingers into things.


	7. Chapter 7

Wayne, it turns out, does _not_ want to get out of his armor.

Getting the cuffs off his hands—it is a _very_ conscious choice to do his hands first—goes well. Attaching the silver rings around his wrists goes well. Even making sure they're properly secured shut and can't be hauled open goes just fine, although Slade has to say _stay_ about fifteen times to keep Wayne from moving.

The moment Slade touches Wayne's gauntlet to pull it off—he's pretty sure that's the topmost layer of his armor—Wayne goes berserk.

He fights like Slade is trying to kill him, and it's only the hasty application of his new restraints (and the old ones, still on his ankles) that keep him from doing serious damage. He manages to rake his claws across Slade's arm before the magnets kick in, snapping his wrists together and keeping him from doing more damage.

It hurts like hell. Slade can heal, but he's not immune to damage, and he has to back up, pinching the wound closed and letting it heal as he eyes Wayne warily. He wants to get him out of the armor. In fact, he'd even escalate it to a _need._ Without knowing what's going on under the armor, it's hard for him to judge the situation.

Is Wayne healthy, under the armor? Without it, can he pass for a human being and not a half-mad Talon? Or is he held together with whatever the Court's equivalent of duct tape is?

He has to find out for himself. There's simply no other option.

Wayne makes him pay for it in blood.

Slade's forced to pin him down to get the gauntlet on his right arm unlatched, holding him in place with basically his entire body weight. The noises Wayne makes sound like a man possessed, pained and distressed howls that sound more like an injured animal than anything a human mouth should be making. He's happy for his lack of neighbors as he finally manages to remove one gauntlet, dropping it onto the ground and twisting Wayne around for the second.

Wayne fights like he's being murdered. He punches and kicks and struggles every bit of the way, and the gauntlets are the _easiest_ part of the whole thing. The gauntlets are just one part with one latch, and after that the suit is more multiple _pieces_ that need to be carefully removed in a precise order that Slade doesn't know and Wayne isn't willing to tell.

Wayne breaks his nose before he manages to get the top off. He breaks Slade's leg and escapes across the room with his chest piece hanging half-off, and doesn't seem to have enough mental focus to realize to put it back on. Slade has to reset his leg, letting the bones heal back together, and then goes after Wayne again... after knocking the temperature down a few degrees.

It takes two hours for him to get every piece of armor off. Two hours of screaming. Of a desperate struggle that's probably the hardest fight Slade's ever had to deal with.

It ruins the room, blood splattered on the floor. It probably ruins part of Wayne's armor, too.

But by the end of it, Slade's won. Wayne's been stripped down to nothing, huddled in the corner covered in grime. It is immediately apparent to Slade that Wayne hasn't been properly cleaned in a long, long time, that his armor has simply been left on him effectively indefinitely.

Did they simply replace it while he was out? Or have they not replaced it at all, since they got him into the current set?

Wayne looks small and vulnerable crouched in the corner. He is curled, protecting his body as much as he possibly can. Protecting himself from attack, even though Slade has—through a frankly disgusting amount of self control—refrained from hurting him at all. He hasn't even gotten elbowed, even when he was attempting to strangle Slade to death.

But he is still _afraid._

It softens Slade, if only a bit. The realization that Wayne is acting like an injured animal cowering in the face of a predator makes his movements slower, more obvious. He broadcasts what he's doing with his body language, watching the way too-pale eyes follow his movements around the room. He fetches a suit, one of his own that he thinks will fit, and then second guesses and grabs a second. He wanted something loose, but thinking about it he suspects Wayne might want something tight and form fitting that will feel like his old one.

He does not attempt to remove the muzzle.

With the rest of the suit removed, Slade's suspicions are confirmed: the mask, unlike the suit, is attached in a more permanent manner. It is not intended to come off easily, if at all. Removing it will probably hurt, and Slade doesn't want to hurt Wayne more than he already has.

The muzzle will come later.

He uses the built in desire for heat against Wayne. He leaves the bathroom door open, runs a hot bath, and then clears the way. Watches the way Wayne makes for the tub, going slowly as he inches along bit by bit.

He lets Wayne get into the tub himself, and Slade feels the tension in his shoulders ease as Wayne sinks down into the hot tub, his eyes drifting closed as his body soaks in the heat.

It feels like the first time Wayne hasn't been trying to murder him, so Slade takes it as a win.

"I know you hated that, but you needed to get the suit off. You're dangerous enough without the armor, and you're absolutely filthy as it stands. You want to try scrubbing yourself off?"

Wayne does not.

It takes a compromise of sorts to get him any sort of clean: Slade runs the shower as hot as it'll go, and once the water's started to cool off Wayne slinks over to stand in the spray. Between the soak and the shower, the dirt starts running off him, making a mess of the floor and revealing more and more skin.

And more scars.

Wayne's skin is unnaturally, unhealthily pale as it is, but the scars still stand out, bone white and prominent, the texture of the skin all wrong. They haven't healed cleanly the way they should, making Slade suspect they were done _before_ he became a Talon, but the size of them makes him question that possibility. There are thick bands of scar tissue running down the outside of his arms and legs, and one down his spine. There are plenty of small ones too, better healed and likely from before he was taken by the court.

Whatever they've done to Wayne, they've made sure it hurt.


	8. Chapter 8

Slade doesn't want to have to deal with coaxing Wayne out of the shower, so he simply doesn't. There's no reason not to leave him in a bit longer, to get off a bit more dirt. Slade has other things he can do, anyway.

He is surprised to find Jason waiting for him in the living room, but not because Jason isn't supposed to be there. More realistically speaking, Slade had forgotten Jason was even _around,_ overly focused on Wayne's issues and how he's supposed to deal with them.

Jason's in the middle of cleaning up the disaster that is the living room when Slade emerges from the bathroom, and he doesn't glance up, intent on his work even when Slade clears his throat.

"I know you're there," is Jason's response, still not looking up. "How is he?"

"Somewhere between scared animal and someone who's just finished working out and is delighted to get a hot shower."

"Physically?"

"They did some serious damage. Huge bands of scar tissues down his limbs, and one running down his spine. No telling what they actually _did,_ but I can assess that later. No open injuries, and with some clothes on and the muzzle off, I think he could pass for a normal human."

Jason looks up at that, eyes narrowing. His eyes are wet, as if he's been crying, but he doesn't look like crying right then.

"WIth the muzzle off?"

"I think it's grafted to the bone. Either way, it's attached to his face. Removing it is going to be painful and stressful, and I'm not in a hurry to do it."

"He needs it off. How is he going to eat, Slade?"

"Don't think he has to."

Jason reacts like he's been struck, turning away again.

He's too sensitive, Slade realizes. He's too close to the situation, too emotionally invested. Seeing Wayne the way he is—scar tissue, terrified behavior, and unremovable muzzle—is going to be too much for him.

Jason's his boss, and Slade has to keep that in mind.

"You should go home. I know you want to be here for him, but right now, being blunt, he doesn't recognize anyone or anything. He's reacting purely on instinct, and I think he's going to need at least a few days before he calms down enough to start _thinking_ rather than _reacting."_

Slade's talking out of his ass. He has no idea how long it might take for Wayne to get better. He's not sure it'll even be possible. But he needs to give Jason a time to make him feel like it's a concrete possibility, and giving himself a _few days_ is what he needs right then.

Jason hesitates. He doesn't want to go. He wants to stay, to help, and Slade mentally runs through his options before deciding on a course of action, reaching out to rest a hand on Jason's shoulder. He mirrors Wayne as he was, not as he is, and hopes that's enough.

"He's going to need your presence, but right now isn't the right time for it. You're paying me a lot of money to deal with this, so let me deal with it." Slade knows how much Jason's paying him, and it's a _lot,_ even if they never talked about dollar values. Jason knows what he's worth, and he knows the value of the information he's entrusted to Slade. "Go home. Go back to your life. I'll send you reports. I'll tell you what's going on. But you don't need to be here day to day."

It's just more work Slade doesn't need, constantly having to keep track of Jason and how he's feeling at any given time. He'll have his hands full with Bruce as it is.

"If you want to be helpful, go find the court. Hunt them down and make them pay for it. Get your whole gang in on it. The less presence they have, the better things will be for him."

And if Jason manages to completely wipe them out? All the better. The world would be a better place without the court in it, and _his_ job would be so much easier.

Jason stares at him, eyes wide and searching, and then he finally turns away.

"I'll find them," he says simply. "I want regular updates on his condition."

Slade's already mentally revising that night's update, deciding how to word _Wayne was too mouthy so they made sure he couldn't talk_ in the most Jason-friendly manner possible.

"I'll keep you in the loop," he promises. "Get going."

He sees Jason out, making sure to secure the door behind him, before finally returning to the bathroom.

Despite his concerns about Wayne making an escape attempt the moment he's out of line of sight, Wayne is right where Slade left him, standing in the still-hot spray and soaking it all in. He looks unfocused, the visible parts of his face slack, but he looks less distressed then he did before. Heat certainly seems to help, even if it does mean giving him more energy overall.

Positive feedback seems to be working out better, so Slade opts to handle things that way as much as possible. It's easier to bait Wayne into doing what he wants with warmth or other rewards then to have to wrestle him for everything with the temperature dropped low.

He leaves Wayne in the shower once again and goes to prepare a proper set of clothes, eyeballing Wayne's size and making some adjustments to what he has on hand, and when he returns, carefully turning off the shower, Wayne simply stands there, unmoving, eyes staring blankly at nothing.

"Wayne?"

No response. He's not sure why he thought there would be one, really. Whatever part of Wayne might remain, it's buried deep.

"Talon."

There's a twitch there, a tiny movement, the slightest shift of his eyes. He recognizes that, at least. Knows that he's a _Talon,_ and that he's supposed to respond to it. Probably there's more to it, certain words and phrases he's trained to react to, but Slade doesn't know what they are, and he's not in a hurry to reinforce them.

But he can't help but doing so anyway.

"You have new armor," he explains, holding up the bodysuit. It's not going to provide anything in the way of padding, but it covers most of his body, hiding the worst of the scars. With it on, he could even pass for human, at least at a distance. The muzzle's the only thing that would stick out, and that's a problem for another day. "Put it on."

It takes some nudging for Wayne to take it, slowly accepting the armor. It seems to take him forever from taking the suit to finally start putting it on, like his brain can't quite figure out what he's supposed to be doing with it.

It gets to the point where Slade has to _instruct_ him, feeling more ridiculous by the moment.

"Put it on," he says, and then has to get more specific. "Pants first. One leg at a time."

He has to _coach_ Wayne through it—toweling off is clearly beyond him, so it simply goes on while he's wet and Slade trusts the suit will take care of the moisture—but finally he's _in actual clothes_ and looking almost like a person again.

Still standing in the bathroom staring at nothing like a robot waiting for input, but they can work on that.


	9. Chapter 9

There is an order to what's happening, a method to the Court's madness. Wayne is a Talon, a part of a greater whole. The Talon strikes because the owl's mind chooses for it to do so, not of its own free will.

He has, without question, killed before. The Court has used him. Slade has no solid _evidence_ of that, and yet he knows it must be true in a way that feels deep seated and undeniable.

He cannot truly be mindless. Talons are best when they are absolutely loyal, but capable of operating on their own. Maybe there are certain words or situations. Maybe there are phrases. Slade knows none of them, so he's forced to fumble through things using what information he _does_ have.

Wayne doesn't seem particularly aggressive if Slade isn't around him. Mostly he just stands there, unfocused and largely unresponsive. If left to his own devices, he'll do nothing at all, something Slade is sure the Court specifically trained him for. They wouldn't have wanted him to wander. They wouldn't have wanted him to do anything on his own.

He can follow simple directions—one or two words at most—and generally does seem willing to do so without much prompting. He knows _stop_ and _go_ and _come_ and _stay_ when Slade tries them, but anything more complicated (like _put on these clothes_ or _get dressed)_ doesn't seem to process.

There is a trick to it, Slade is sure, but he doesn't have any idea what it might be.

Getting closer to Wayne, on the other hand, is more difficult. The moment Slade draws near, Wayne becomes aggressive. Sometimes—rarely—he will back away, retreating from what he must see as a threat. Others he simply jumps right to attempting to disembowel Slade. Sometimes he tries to use blades he doesn't have, or the gauntlets that Slade took from him. These moves are instinctual, drilled into his brain in a manner that has nothing to do with _thinking._ Sometimes, that confusion snaps him out of the aggression, leaving Wayne still, staring at his empty hand, waiting for a knife to appear in it.

It's those times when Wayne seems the most vulnerable... and the most human. He seems _lost,_ his brain trying to put two and two together and somehow always managing to come up with five, just aware enough to recognize something is wrong but not enough to recheck his math.

It strikes Slade as sad, and yet no obvious option presents itself.

He's going to have to take things slowly, bit by bit.

With his armor off, the next immediate step is unclear. He doesn't need to _eat,_ so the muzzle isn't actually a priority, but it's presence still rankles Slade. If he thought it might be easy to remove, he'd be pinning Wayne down and doing just that, but he knows it won't be. He can wait.

Really, what he needs to do feels obvious, and yet so difficult he doesn't want to think about it: he needs to assess Wayne's mental condition.

Unable to come up with something better, he has no other choice but to deal with it.

"Wayne. Sit."

He has to prompt twice more to get him to do so, completely ignoring the couch in favor of sitting on the floor, his legs folded under him. He's ready to spring up if needed, nothing in his posture relaxed.

Slade takes a seat on the couch not far from him, giving Wayne space. Close enough to hear clearly, but far enough away that he won't feel threatened.

Then he tries.

"You're Bruce Wayne. You've got a whole family, and kids, and they think you're dead. Everyone does. The whole world thinks you died because it sure as fuck seemed like you blew up your house. You sent Alfred away and told him you'd be coming soon, and then you blew up the manor, but now I'm not sure if it was _you_ or if someone else did that for you. Maybe that was the court. We don't know, or at least _I_ don't."

Wayne doesn't seem to recognize he's being spoken to. He doesn't really acknowledge the explanation at all, but Slade just has to hope it's getting through to him anyway.

So he tries to keep going.

"I'm not going to tell you their names. Hopefully you'll remember them in your own time. Let that be your... metric." He doesn't want to feed him names and have him repeat them back to the kids. Doesn't want to give them _hope._ Jason knows—or at least he has a general idea—but the others don't. Eventually they'll learn about Wayne.

He doesn't want their first meeting with them to lead them to think he remembers them if he doesn't, and Slade doesn't think for even a moment that Wayne does.

Wayne doesn't even remember he's a person. How can he remember his kids, or the man who raised him if he doesn't remember that?

Maybe it'll come back to him. That's all Slade can hope.

"Can you talk? You must make reports at some point. Confirm you've killed your target."

Wayne says nothing, so Slade tries something new: he signs.

_Can you report?_

There's no response to that, either, and Slade can't tell if he's pushing too hard, or if Wayne is simply going to be _like_ that.

Maybe he shouldn't expect so much. Maybe he should set his expectations nice and low.

Or, maybe, he realizes late, maybe Wayne _can't_ talk with the muzzle as it is.

He feels stupid for not realizing it earlier. Stupid for not even considering it. The muzzle probably _hurts,_ if Wayne can even feel pain in his current state.

Really, Slade feels distinctly _off his game._ It would be easier if his job were just to hunt down and deal with the Court. _That's_ in his wheelhouse. _That_ is something he can do.

Dragging Wayne kicking and screaming through something like recovery is something so much harder.


	10. Chapter 10

Despite Slade's concerns, very little kicking and screaming actually happens. Wayne is almost entirely inoffensive, non-responsive the bulk of the time as Slade goes about his own business. He has things to do, people to check in on, and he decides it's as good a time as any to observe how Bruce reacts when he's not the focus of things.

The answer, inevitably, is that he doesn't. Wayne is like a machine, taking input and giving output, but never giving anything of his own. Without direction or being at least pointed the right way, he has nothing, and so becomes nothing.

Slade supposes it at least makes him easy to ignore, which is _one_ good thing about the situation.

He contacts Billy, letting him know that Deathstroke's going to be off the market for at _least_ a few weeks, and checks his accounts. There's a whole lot of money waiting for him, and no doubt more to come. He doesn't come cheap, and Jason knows that.

Once that's done, though, there's very little else to do. He keeps himself busy moving from job to job, and while keeping an eye on Wayne is full-time, it's not exactly _enthralling_ in any way.

Working with him isn't much better, but it's at least worth a try.

"Come," Slade says, putting as much authority as he can into his voice, and Wayne reacts immediately, moving to stand in front of him. "Stay."

He reaches up, wary for an attack, but Wayne does nothing as Slade's fingers meet the muzzle. There's the slightest twitch, the tiniest movement that almost anyone else would have missed, and Slade makes a quiet noise with his mouth, an attempt to appeal to whatever animal instincts Wayne might still have to get him to be still.

"Let me look."

There's an elegance to the muzzle, it's design an actual _design._ Someone sat down and sketched it out before painstakingly crafting it. Slade would consider it art if the core purpose of it weren't so cruel, a design intended to prevent Wayne from ever opening his mouth again. Silencing him in a very, very physical way.

It isn't a pretty design. It's rough black metal, interlocking plates fitted together to hold Wayne's jaw in place. The most distinctive feature is the sides, where slightly lighter—and very sharp looking—plates interlock in a way that is reminiscent of teeth.

Up close, Slade notices more scars. There's a cut on Wayne's right temple that he already knew about, but there's also a chunk missing from the top of his left ear he hadn't noticed. None of them, however, compare to the scar just visible at the edge of the muzzle, likely caused when the metal of the muzzle dug in.

The thing that alarms Slade the most is that the scar is there at all.

The very process that made him a Talon left him with regeneration that rivals Slade's own. He could be run through with a spear and wind up without a scratch on him, with only the most extreme situations causing any permanent damage. The fact that the scar exists means that the injury _predates_ Wayne becoming a Talon.

The muzzle was put on while he was still aware. While he was still Bruce Wayne.

It's a horrible realization. Whatever they Court did to him, Bruce was _aware_ for most of it. They didn't just wave a magic wand and wind up with a brainwashed Talon for them to do what they wished with.

No, they broke him down, bit by bit, piece by piece. They took him apart until there was nothing left.

Slade withdraws his hand. He has a better idea of how the muzzle connects together, and unless he wants to rip it off Wayne's face—probably taking his jaw with it—he's going to need specialized tools to deal with it. It's also, up close, impossible to miss how tense Wayne is, waiting for pain that isn't coming. Waiting for Slade to _hurt_ him.

"You're alright," Slade says, trying to sound reassuring. "I just wanted to know how it fit together so we can get it off you eventually."

He wonders why they put it on at all. Did Wayne bite? Or did they just want to make absolutely sure he couldn't talk?

A component of it, either way, is simply psychological warfare. There's better ways to do either, and attaching a massive piece of hardware to his face is as much about breaking Wayne down as it is preventing him from actually doing something.

"You can't have been easy to break," Slader mumbles, but for once he's not explaining himself to Wayne; he's just talking to himself, speaking the words out loud. Wayne is— _was_ —the Batman. He had damn near unmatched mental fortitude, and there was no way he broke easily.

When Slade withdraws, it's with the sense that he should be preparing a meal for the two of them, only Wayne doesn't need to and seems completely disinterested in meal prep. He cooks for himself instead, letting Wayne stay where he was in the living area, watching Slade move around the kitchen. He takes it as a win that Wayne is watching him at all, moving his head tiny amounts to keep Slade always in his view. It's better than just standing there unmoving, and Slade can't decide if it's his behavior that's changing, or if Wayne's become, even in a tiny way, less robotic.

"Come sit with me." Slade says, gesturing to the chair, and he only has to turn to Wayne, raising an eyebrow, to get the man to do so.

Wayne sits across from him as Slade eats, watching him as he does. He doesn't make a sound, but his eyes _do_ seem to be moving more, and Slade decides it's a positive sign.

"You should look around," he says. "Check out the house. You'll be here for a while."

Wayne isn't entirely self motivated, but he's slightly more willing to explore as Slade chaperones him around the house, showing him where everything is. The 'guest' room, of course, where he'll be staying, but also the garage, the living room, the kitchen... Wayne is without question looking at things, eyeing all the bits and pieces. Slade even catches him staring at a hidden weapons cache, one of the more obvious ones in the house, and offers a smile.

"It's not hidden very well because you can't open it. Locked." He doesn't explain that it needs his DNA—Wayne doesn't need to know that, and Slade isn't in the business of giving people more information then they need.

They loop their way back to the living room, and Wayne, unprompted, sits down.

Maybe Slade shouldn't be so happy that someone _sat down,_ but he fucking is. It feels like one of the only non-murderous, entirely unprompted things that he's done. Slade almost feels like praising him for it, telling him he's done a good job, only that makes him feel too much like Wayne is a dog.

He's a person, even if he's got his issues.

"Alright," Slade says, sitting down across from Wayne. "The most important thing is going to be communication. I need to be able to understand what _you_ understand, even if it's just a yes or a no. Even if you can't talk just yet, I need _acknowledgement_ when I say something." The court must have something similar, he reasons. Some way for Wayne to confirm he understood his mission. To acknowledge if he'd succeeded. "Do you understand?"

Slade stares. Wayne stares back. He doesn't want to _prompt_ for what he wants—even if he has something very specific in mind—so it's just a particularly intense stare down.

"Do you understand what I'm saying? If you do, I need you to acknowledge it."

Slade doesn't know what he'll do if the answer is no. He doesn't know how he'll manage. He _needs_ Wayne to understand. He needs him to answer.

"Please."

Maybe he shouldn't say it, shouldn't _beg,_ and yet he does anyway. He needs it, and as he waits, his prayers are answered.

Wayne nods. It's such a simple, basic thing, and yet it tells Slade everything that he needs to know: even if Wayne's buried by the programming the Court's forced on him, he's still in there.


	11. Chapter 11

Wayne goes to his room easily that night, but when Slade checks the cameras he's still just standing there, lurking just inside the door and making no attempt to lie down or explore. He's expecting him still to be right in the same place when he wakes, only to his surprise he's not. Wayne isn't in bed, but he's moved, standing over by the window. It's set up that no one can see in, just out, and the whole thing is secured to ensure no one can get in or out through it, but it still makes Slade wary to see him staring out it.

Is he considering escape? Slade knows he isn't getting the _come home_ signal he was before, but that doesn't mean the instinct isn't still there, drilled into Wayne's head in a way that isn't easily forgotten.

Wayne doesn't react when Slade opens the door to his room, but he does come when called, following Slade into the living room. He sits again, without prompting, sitting heavily on the couch as Slade turns on the TV. He figures seeing _normal_ people doing _normal_ things might spark something in him, and aside from that he can't spend literally his entire day keeping an eye on Wayne. He has other things to do, work that needs to get done, and people he needs to stay in touch with.

He's also curious to see what Wayne will do without prompting. So far, he's just sat motionless and waited for input, but Slade is hoping that will change in time.

And it does, even if it takes a few hours. Not too long after Slade's eaten lunch (of course prompting Wayne to join him at the table, just to get him into the routine of it), Wayne's watching TV when he apparently decides that it's boring. He turns his head, and Slade's eye fixes on him, watching from across the room as he turns to investigate, scanning the room as if looking for trouble.

Does he think it's a base, or that he's been taken captive? Does he understand where he is?

The exploration is slow and methodical. Wayne is in no rush as he slowly gets up and starts to move around the room. He checks the locks on the doors that are supposed to go to the backyard (Slade sealed them shut ages ago, and now the doors are just for show), the latches on the windows (also sealed), and the state of the room in general. Once he's finished his torturously slow circuit, he seems almost at a loss, standing around doing nothing for a while longer.

"Go on," Slade calls from the dining room table, which he's using at his office while there's a need to keep Wayne in line of sight. "You can explore the house."

He tries not to phrase it as an order. Wayne _can_ explore the rest of the house, but he doesn't have to. Of course Slade does want him to, but he knows better than to force him. Nothing good will come of that.

Wayne, predictably, doesn't do so right away. He lingers, occasionally turning his head to look at things, and only after what seems like forever does he decide to leave the room, wandering into the hallway.

Slade immediately accesses the house's security system to watch. Even with things to do, Wayne _is_ his first priority, so he spends his afternoon watching as Wayne slowly tours the house. He tries doors, finding many locked (while Slade wasn't expecting Wayne to go touring right _then_ , he suspected it would happen sooner or later), and is just investigating the pantry when Jason calls.

Slade keeps his eyes on the camera as he picks up, leaning back in his seat with the phone to his ear. He doesn't get a greeting—Jason just gets straight to the point.

"How is he?"

"He sat down on an actual seat all on his own," Slade answers. "He also nodded once when I talked to him. Means he can still understand what's being said to him."

"Physically? I'm assuming you've assessed him."

Jason sounds jumpy, even on the edge of his seat, and Slade wonders where he is. Back in his apartment? Out on patrol and trying to act like everything is normal and nothing's wrong? Have the others started to notice yet? Started to wonder?

Slade can't imagine it'll be long before they sniff out that Jason's hiding something.

"Heavy scarring running down his limbs and spine where he's been cut open. Damage is severe enough the scar tissue is pretty thick, likely minimal physical sensation in those spots. Muzzle is grafted to his face, but seems to be in multiple pieces. Going to give him a few days to settle in, then I think if I remove a piece it'll be able to seperate to let him open his mouth."

Ideally the muzzle would come _off,_ but letting Wayne use his jaw again seems like a good alternative in the meanwhile.

"Anything else?"

"I don't have an x-ray machine lying around, you know. I'm limited in what I can do."

"Blood tests?"

"I don't have a _lab,_ Jason, and anything I sent out increases the risk of someone realizing what's going on. The Court's still around, unless you've wiped them out since I last saw you, and with how much time and money they put into him, they're going to want him back."

There is absolutely no question about that in Slade's mind. Even without evidence, he _knows_ that the Court is already looking for them.

He's not an idiot, after all.

Jason apparently isn't either. He makes a small noise of recognition, of _acknowledgement,_ and goes silent for a while. Slade lets him stew in it before responding, lets everything he just said really _sink in._

"I am letting him settle in. I'll let him adjust. Then we can start seeing how he reacts to things, pushing for recovery. For now, he just needs to be stable, and _you_ need to focus on the court. If you want this to go faster, you can come babysit, and I'll—"

"No."

Jason cuts him off, but offers no explanation. He doesn't really need to, because Slade knows why he refuses.

While certainly _part_ of it is the fact that if Wayne goes out of control, Jason would struggle to contain him, the much larger, more painful fact is the reality of it: Jason isn't ready to look at Wayne. He's not ready to deal with him on a day to day basis, watching the man who was once his father and seeing what he's become.

Slade can't blame him, but it doesn't make things easy for him either.

"Focus on the Court then," he says. "Until they're taken care of, our options are limited. If you do manage to get them, you'll also have access to their files, which can give us a better idea of what was done to him."

On the screen, Slade watches as Bruce leaves the pantry, wandering down the hall at a slow, shuffling pace.

"I'll try. They're not making it easy. If anything, they seem _less_ active then they were before I took him. I think they've gone into hiding."

"Not surprising that they changed their tactics. You found him in the first place, didn't you?"

"I didn't know he was there. It was just... just another Court base. I found it almost by chance. It—I could have easily missed him."

"Well, you didn't, so you can be happy with that. Get some sleep if you haven't, and get some work if you have."

Jason grunts, says his goodbyes, and hangs up. As he does, Wayne turns on the screen to stare up at the hidden camera Slade is watching him through, making absolutely sure that Slade is aware he knows that he's being watched.


	12. Chapter 12

Wayne's movements are slow and methodical as he stares up at the camera. Practiced. Planned. Nothing like the half-wild behavior Slade had encountered when he'd first dragged him out of the Court's hideout. This requires _higher thought,_ but Slade isn't entirely sure that the higher thought can be said to be Wayne's own.

It feels like something the Court might have told him to do. Some sort of old contingency plan that's only just now coming into play for reasons Slade can't understand.

He watches as Wayne turns away from the camera, heading for the window at the end of the hallway. He examines it, running his fingers across the edges, finding the latch—disconnected—and testing it.

Trying to find a way to get the window open.

He finds the secondary latch and throws his weight against it, and Slade lets out a groan. The house is fortified, yes, prepared to withstand an assault, but Talons are _strong,_ and it's not reasonably possible for him to make the whole house Talon-proof while keeping himself safe. Has Wayne already tried the window in his room, and found that it's that much harder to get through?

Probably.

Slade snaps his laptop shut and heads through the kitchen towards the bedroom hallway to stop him. He doesn't want to activate his cuffs, snapping his wrists and ankles together without being able to see him—the magnets are strong enough to break bone if Slade isn't careful, and he _really_ doesn't want to have to deal with that.

Only when he gets to the hallway, it's empty. The window's partially open, and Slade darts forward, staring out it, and only once he has does he realize his mistake. Wayne's only managed to drag it partially open—high enough to get a bit of air but no more—and there's absolutely no way he could fit through a gap that's only three inches at most.

Which means he's somewhere else. Slade turns slowly, focusing on his other senses. Listening to the sounds of the house for noise. He expects to hear something breaking, but he doesn't. He doesn't hear anything at all.

"Wanye," he calls. "Don't play this game with me."

He tries not to sound angry. He definitely sounds angry anyway.

"Wayne."

Nothing.

He checks the front door (still closed), Wayne's room, the bathroom, and the pantry. He checks behind all the obvious furniture, in all the clear hiding spots.

He finds nothing. Wayne has vanished, and Slade isn't stupid enough to spend another five minutes poking around the entire house when he has the answer in front of him. He snaps open his laptop, zips the cameras back five minutes, and then plays them on five times speed with a view of every camera in the house.

On the screen, Wayne stays at the window until Slade closes the laptop and starts to move. The moment he does, Wayne moves as well, deftly avoiding Slade. The whole house is _effectively_ a circle, and while Slade moved clockwise, so to did Wayne, letting him miss Wayne completely.

He tracks Wayne's movement into the living room, and then... nothing.

Wayne moves into a gap in the cameras and vanishes.

The hair on the back of Slade's neck stands up, the realization hitting him. Stupid. He's supposed to be better than this, and rather than being upset with Wayne he's instead angry at himself for falling for it.

Slade turns in place, tilting his head back, and finds Wayne perched atop the cabinets in the corner of the room. It's a tiny space, one he's had to cram himself in, and yet Wayne seems perfectly content up near the ceiling, watching as Slade moves around.

It, being realistic, is both pointless and genius, and there's so many _layers_ to it. The cabinets are meant to store (and technically do store, although Slade doesn't use them for obvious reasons) china and other fancy dishes. Most wouldn't be able to hold a man's weight, let alone _Wayne's_ weight, and yet Wayne must somehow have known that they would. That Slade had fortified them like every other damn thing in the house.

He must have studied the camera positions while he was _slowly_ working his way through the house. Figured out the inevitable blind spots. Made a plan to bait Slade away.

It's so fucking _smart_ that Slade's almost impressed.

Except Wayne's now eight feet in the air on top of a cabinet, staring down at him. Is he smug? He _should_ be smug, and getting him down is going to be damn near impossible if Wayne won't come down willingly.

"Wayne. Get down from there."

No response. Not surprising, considering it didn't sound convincing even to Slade's ears: not quite an order, but not quite a request, either. Really, he's not entirely sure how the hell to deal with it. Bait him down with food? Only he doesn't eat. There's nothing he can offer that Wayne actually wants, nothing he can present to convince him to come down. For all he knows, Wayne is perfectly content to just stay up there forever.

Wouldn't that just be a piece of shit?

"Fine," Slade says with a wave of his hand. He turns away, moving the laptop so Wayne can't see the screen and settling in at the dining room table. He can see Wayne clearly from the new angle, and any sort of movement is going to draw his attention.

If Wayne wants to play stubborn, two can play at that game.


	13. Chapter 13

Slade's plan is a resounding failure.

He fully expects for Wayne to break. Boredom is a powerful motivator for most people, and _most_ people would get bored after a short while sitting atop a cabinet, crammed into a corner.

Wayne does not, and as the sun sinks behind the horizon outside of the front window, Slade has to accept that he can't keep thinking of Wayne as a human. He doesn't have the same motivations, or the same solitary needs. A human would be driven down by hunger or boredom or the desperate need to pee, but Wayne could be up there for the rest of his life without any issue.

So he calls Jason.

"What's wrong?"

Slade grunts into the phone.

"You can't assume that every time I call you something's gone wrong."

"That doesn't mean nothing _is_ wrong, Slade, or you'd have said that nothing's wrong. So what's wrong?"

Jason's got him there. Something _is_ wrong.

"It's not important or dangerous or life threatening or anything like that. I was just hoping to pick your idea for any ways to... get him down."

"...Get him down from _where?"_

"He snuck onto the top of a cabinet. Wedged himself into the gap between it and the ceiling. He's been up there a few hours and shows no signs of moving."

"Have you tried asking?" Jason asks after a long pause.

"Told him to get down here. He didn't bite."

"I said did you try _asking?"_

Slade grunts, eyes flicking up to the Talon by the ceiling. He's still there, not moving, and yet he's still staring intensely down at him.

"That's a no," Jason says. "Try thinking of it from his point of view. He's been dragged out of a place he knew, shoved into a place he doesn't... I—" Jason has to stop, taking a deep breath, and only then does he allow himself to continue. "I don't think he recognizes you. So you're just a stranger to him. You said he understood what you were saying, so just... talk to him."

Slade grunts into the phone, something that's almost a plan coming together in his mind.

"I'll call you back. Or send you a message or something."

Jason says his goodbyes, hanging up before Slade can get his head on straight and do the same to him. Just _asking_ isn't going to work. That's what his gut is telling at him, what it's screaming at him.

And yet he can't be certain at the same time. He can't _know._

Wayne could have caught him off guard. He could have tried to find his armor, tucked away elsewhere in the house. Instead, he retreated, finding a place Slade would have a hard time dragging him out of.

No, Slade decides. The position still leaves Wayne vulnerable. If Slade wanted to hurt him up there, he could. Wayne's in one place and vulnerable. The real reason for the position, the one that makes actual sense, is that Wayne chose it to prove that he could. To _prove_ he could avoid Slade's cameras. That he could sneak up on him if he wanted.

Thinking about things from Wayne's point of view is impossible, but Slade tries anyway. Tries to just _imagine_ what must be going through Wayne's head.

He comes up empty. The mindset is too alien, and his understanding of Wayne's mindset is too limited. He can't put himself in Wayne's shoes because he doesn't know what Wayne really went through. He can't even guess, because he's not sure how _there_ Wayne is. How much is instinct? How much is Talon training? How much is _Bruce Wayne?_

But he tries asking anyway. He stands from the table, closing his laptop behind him, and then stands back a little bit so that Wayne could climb down if he wants.

"Would you please come down?" He asks, watching Wayne for any signs of a possible attack. "I can't have you up there without it being a risk. If you come down, we can sit down and eat dinner."

Well, he can eat dinner, but the idea is there. He's trying to get Wayne on a routine as fast as he possibly can, because that's the only way he knows to force some structure on his life.

The fastest way to see if he can adjust to a normal life.

Wayne stares down at him, and then, less than thirty seconds after Slade finishes talking, starts to get down.

There's a fluid grace to it, a practiced series of motions that makes Slade wonder how many similar places Wayne's climbed into. Was this part of his skillset already, or did the Court train him to hide like this? Did they train him to shove himself into a corner, lurking and waiting for his target to be nearby?

How many people have fallen for it the way Slade did, but ended up meeting a much more violent fate?

Wayne stands in front of him, his posture slightly _off,_ and Slade has to mentally place a knife in his hand to understand what he's doing. He's prepared to fight. Even if Slade's taken his weapons, the instincts are still there. Instincts to defend himself. The posture isn't quite Batman, but it's not entirely _not_ Batman either. A muddled mix of his old habits, overlaid with Court training.

He has to talk with him.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I don't know if you even know who I am anymore, but I mean that. I got brought on to help you. To try and bring you back to who you were. If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done it already."

He doesn't know how much more simple he can make it.

Wayne's eyes are cold as he stares at Slade. Studying him, Slade thinks, but it's hard to tell. Wayne was _never_ particularly expressive, his emotions always carefully controlled, but now it's taken to an extreme degree. Slade's trying to scrutinize his reaction from microscopic twitches, and _half_ of his face is covered making it even harder.

So he just gives up. It doesn't really matter, after all.

"It's late," he says. "Even if you don't sleep, you should go back to your room. Get in the habit of being there." He makes a shooing motion, and after a bit more staring, Wayne does turn to go.

Slade's not stupid enough to let him go alone, and instead follows him, trailing just behind so that he can secure him in his room. Even if Wayne chose not to hurt him right _then,_ it doesn't guarantee anything. Not with a Talon.


	14. Chapter 14

They don't settle into a routine so much as Slade forces them into one. He needs the routine, and as far as he can guess, Wayne would do better with one too.

They wake at seven—or at least he wakes—he showers, dresses, and goes to fetch Wayne. They eat—or, again, _he_ eats— meals three times a day, sitting down at a table.

Wayne, for the most part, simply accepts whatever schedule Slade forces on him. He spends the nights in his room, not sleeping but apparently inactive. He spends his days much the same, drifting around the house and responding to Slade's prompts. The first day it felt like he'd made progress in leaps and bounds, but once Wayne is apparently comfortable, that grinds to a halt.

Slade knew it was coming, but it's irritating anyway.

He makes regular reports to Jason, and gets supplies delivered to the house. He makes one brief trip outside, but even then he's not actually going anywhere: he's just lurking nearby, watching security to see if Wayne attempts to escape (he doesn't).

Jason, on his end, makes absolutely no progress. It's as if the Court's vanished, and while Slade knows they haven't really, they've obviously withdrawn to make new plans. Better plans.

Plans Slade knows he isn't going to like.

Jason visits five days after Slade first moves into the safehouse. He's dressed in civilian clothes, but he's doing a shit job keeping a low profile. He's too nervous, and too emotionally involved to keep himself under control. He wants to see Wayne, obviously, but Slade treats the whole situation like a man introducing a dog to a new puppy: as carefully as possible.

He doesn't need to bother. Wayne simply ignores Jason's presence, showing no response to him at all. It's not that he likes or dislikes him; it's as if Jason isn't even _there._

Slade can't help but feel that Jason would be happier if Wayne was trying to murder him. He's trying not to sulk too visibly as Slade explains what he's learned, and he's still sulking when they settle in at the dining room table to talk.

"I want to make this more... long term," Jason says without preamble. "It's obvious this is going to be something that isn't going to be finished in a few days. What he needs is stability, not... well, I don't even know what I'm going to do if you say you're leaving."

Without meaning to, Slade turns his head, looking towards the living room where Wayne sits, watching whatever happens to be on TV at the time. Wayne, who was once one of his greatest enemies. Who was a worthy rival. Who has fallen in the most dramatic way Slade can imagine, a shell of who he was, having betrayed all of his principles.

Or been forced to betray is probably a more fair assessment. It wasn't as if he had any say in it.

"I'm willing to stick around," Slade says after a moment. "It's not charity, but I could use a vacation. Books I've been putting off reading, shows I've been putting off watching. Assuming nothing else is happening, he's pretty easy to handle."

Slade was once told that working in IT was both the best and worst job around. On one hand, if you're doing your job right, you have nothing to do. On the other, if anything goes wrong, the job's a nightmare.

That's how he feels about Wayne right then: so long as he isn't disturbed, he's extremely easy to handle. As long as nothing bothers him, Slade could deal with things with his eyes closed.

"Do you have a timeline—"

"I don't. We'll figure that out when I start running out of things to do." He doesn't want Jason pushing him for some kind of solid answer. He doesn't like planning that far out, not until he has more information. If the Court gets taken care of, then it'll be less of an issue, and someone else can take over keeping an eye on Wayne. If the Court becomes a problem... well, then he'll be more vital.

"I'm not doing this for free," Slade adds after a moment, shooting Jason a look.

Jason actually laughs at that.

"Well aware. I've set it up to automatically deposit every week. Most of the money is Bruce's anyway, so... it seems fitting it should pay for his care."

Setting it up that way means that no matter what happens, Slade's going to walk away with a fat stack of cash to do what he pleases with. It's a win-win situation.

So why does he feel unsettled? Why does he feel _bothered?_

Because it feels almost gross to see someone as proud was Wayne brought so low? Because he's so detached from his reality that he isn't even aware enough to be included in a conversation about what's happening to him?

The man in the other room is not the same man he once considered his equal, and _that_ is what bothers him.

"I was hoping you'd do something else for me as well."

Slade considered the conversation over, so he's surprised when Jason announces there's _other_ work he's supposed to be doing. His eye snaps up, fixing on Jason's face, but there's no sign of nerves there. This is something he's thought about and is absolutely sure on. It's not a last minute addition, something tacked on for a whim.

No, it's something Jason's given a lot of thought to. Something he's _planned._

Slade hates when people around him plan things and he doesn't find out until too late.

 _"Hoping_ makes this sound optional," Slade says, trying to feel it out. Is this something he's going to have to do, or is it just a bonus?

"It's largely optional. Your focus needs to be on Bruce as a priority, but this is... a bonus, basically. A perk. Something you could _potentially_ do while taking care of Bruce."

"Just get to the point. Beating around the bush is just a waste of both of our time."

Jason doesn't _normally_ beat around the bush, which means whatever he's going to ask is going to be something Slade's not going to be keen on.

"I have reason to believe the Court might be, on a grand scheme, making moves in Gotham's politics. That was actually why I... why I found him in the first place. I found out that someone who was running for city council was a Court plant, and I was sniffing around investigating that. I got him out, but the fact that they're doing _one_ means there's probably more trouble on the horizon."

Slade agrees with Jason's assessment. The Court isn't going to put all that work to get _one guy_ on the council. Probably they already have people in positions of power. Probably they're adding more as well.

He's just not sure where he comes into it.

"You can't be expecting me to run."

Jason makes a face.

"I'm not an idiot. I know you'd never agree to that, Slade. Dick, Tim and I are all too public to be at a meeting without drawing attention, while Barbara's too well known on the police side of things. You, on the other hand, are a relative unknown. You could go sit down, scope out a meeting, and tell us what to expect."

"And what's happening with Wayne while I'm out spying on politics?"

Jason hesitates, turning his head to look towards where Wayne still sits. He's still, and Slade would bet every dollar he owns that Wayne is listening in to their conversation.

Listening. Calculating. Figuring out what's next.

"I'll watch him," Jason finally says. "I should be able to manage him for a few hours."

Slade isn't sure he believes that, but it's not as if he'll be able to watch Wayne _forever._ At some point, someone else will have to take over. Eventually, it'll fall to Jason.

He might as well give it a try. It'll get him out of the house.

"Sure," he says. "Just let me know when the meeting is, and I'll make an appearance as a concerned citizen. Scope out who's there, who's likely Court, and who's likely going to get killed by the court."

Jason winces.

It's an intentional mention. Slade doesn't think Jason's given any thought to what Wayne was doing while he was a Talon, and he thinks that the faster Jason comes to terms with it, the better. If he doesn't, it'll only end up crashing down around him.

Not that Slade wouldn't enjoy seeing the entire Bat clan collapse in on itself because of their adamant _refusal_ to deal with murder, but it _would_ interfere with his paycheck.

And paychecks always come first.


	15. Chapter 15

Wayne isn't exactly _compliant,_ but he's close enough for Slade's tastes that it doesn't really matter. He does what Slade needs him to. He doesn't try and escape. He follows instructions, even if it takes some prompting.

Which means it's time to take things a step farther: the muzzle has to go.

Wayne seems to be able to tell that something's different the day Slade decides to take a stab at it. He's wary from the moment Slade tells him to sit down, and the tension in his shoulders only becomes more and more obvious.

Wayne's ready to fight, and he's apparently decided that if one of them is going to be hurting at the end of this, he wants it to be Slade.

Slade would love to disagree, but he's pretty sure that if one of them is going to end up hurting, it _is_ going to be him.

"I'm going to try and take your muzzle off," Slade explains, deciding that narrating his actions has the best chance of keeping Wayne from getting startled. He does seem to fully _understand_ what Slade says, he's just not actually connecting with it the way he should. "I'm going to go slow, and I need you to stay still. If it starts hurting, just grunt or make a noise or something."

Fat chance of that.

The moment Slade touches the mask, Wayne starts to growl at him, the top half of his face contorting in a way that makes the scowl beneath the muzzle hard to miss. He's acting like he's about to take Slade's throat out with his teeth, which is giving Slade serious second thoughts about removing it.

But it has to come off eventually.

Wayne stays still for the first few minutes, as Slade slowly probes over the muzzle. The interlocking teeth at the side are sharp enough to cut the tips of his fingers when he touches them without an appropriate amount of caution, but they do give Slade some hope. The design seems tailor made to come apart, or at least to come _together,_ and when he finds a good part, he makes a quick attempt to pull it open.

Bruce doesn't like that.

His hands shoot up, grabbing Slade's forearms. He squeezes, applying enough pressure Slade can feel his bones starting to crack, and Slade winces at the surge of pain and forces himself not to react to it. Not to pull away screaming, exactly the way Wayne wants. Instead, he doubles down. He presses in, forcing Wayne to back off, his back hitting the couch, and then Slade twists his arms just so, breaking Wayne's grip while he'd distracted.

If he was someone less sturdy, both his arms would probably be broken. If he were Jason, for example, and the fact that Jason's supposed to be watching Wayne does not bode well.

"Do _not_ do that. If you do that to someone else, you'll seriously hurt them, and then I'll have to lock you down again. Do you want to be stuck in one room for the rest of your life? Is that what you _want?"_

It is hard—impossible, even—to figure out how he should speak to Wayne. Like a full person, capable of understanding? Like someone who's drunk and not capable of self control? Or like a dog, who understands tone more than individual words? His mind ricochets between all the options, unable to get a handle on Wayne's mental state. Unable to really understand what's going on in his head.

It's frustrating, because in any other situation, Slade feels like he'd already have it all figured out, and he acts on that frustration. He reverses their positions, grabbing Wayne by the forearms and squeezing. Not hard enough to break, but enough to hurt. Enough to leave bruises that will probably be gone in minutes. He shouldn't be hurting Wayne, and yet it feels inevitable that he would: if Wayne doesn't understand that he _can't_ lash out, someone's going to get hurt, and Wayne isn't the one Slade has to worry about.

"You can't do that. You can't _ever_ lay a hand on me or anyone else I introduce you to, Wayne. I am helping you, and they'll be helping you, and if you hurt them, you're going to make things so much worse for yourself. I need to know that you understand that. I need to know that you can be around people without being watched twenty-four hours a day."

He squeezes a little bit harder—just enough to match how Wayne squeezed on him—and locks his eye with Wayne's own. With the ghost-white of his pale eyes, completely unlike the deep blue that he used to have.

Alien. Unfamiliar.

"Let me look at your muzzle."

He releases Wayne's arms, waiting for him to lash out, but he doesn't. He seems cowed, dead silent and deeply wary as he stares at Slade, watching his every move with laser focus. His eyes track Slade's hands as Slade reaches up, tentatively continuing his exploration of the muzzle.

He knows he's not lucky enough to have the two halves pull apart. The teeth are designed to go on and not come back off, meshing together in a way that's not _permanent,_ but close enough. The only way they're disconnecting is if he forces them apart, and even if Wayne is playing along right then, Slade isn't stupid enough to think he will if Slade tries to force it off.

"There's got to be a way..." He mutters under his breath.

Wayne's right hand starts to move, and Slade goes still, waiting for an attack. He watches it rise, but the movement by Wayne is slow and methodical, an obvious attempt to make sure Slade knows what to expect. It's impossible to miss and all but impossible to ignore was Wayne reaches up, and then, with a single calloused finger, taps the front of his muzzle.

What?

Slade stares at him, and Wayne does it again, tapping the front of his mask before dropping his hand. It feels pointed, directed, and Slade narrows his eye, tilting his head as he leans back for a better view.

And once it's been pointed out to him, it's hard to miss what Wayne was no doubt directing him to: while the sides of the mask have a clear seam running down the side where the two parts join, the front does not. The front is a single, solid piece... which means it was added after the fact.

Wayne is remarkably tolerant as Slade runs his fingers along the mask. The top part is effectively one single piece, where as the bottom feels like several that have been attached together. The center—the part right above Wayne's mouth— _looks_ like multiple pieces connected together to make a vent for breathing, but isn't.

It's just one single, solid piece, intended to give the impression that someone could breathe through it. Why, though? Why have a seperate third part of the mask? Why would they design it that way? To give access to the mouth? To let him talk?

Slade doubts he'd be able to talk, even with the third piece removes. The muzzle is too tight to his jaw, holding it in place. Maybe a bit. Maybe more sounds.

It doesn't matter, because Slade's going to remove it anyway.

"Brace yourself," he says, and wraps one hand around the back of Wayne's head as he uses the other to apply pressure to the plate. It doesn't just pop out—it could never be that easy—but pressing shows him where there's more give and less, and after a few minutes more (which Wayne is shockingly patient for), he's able to find just the right place to push.

And just like that, the front piece falls to the floor.

Beneath the mask is dried blood, and a fresh scar on Wayne's lower lip that Slade is sure wasn't there before. But it's still him, and the moment the piece is off, Wayne pulls back as if startled by the feeling of air on his skin.

As much as Slade generally doesn't care about the jobs he takes, there's something immensely satisfying in watching Wayne reach up, touching his bare skin for the first time in what Slade can only charitably think of as _more than a year._


	16. Chapter 16

The moment the mask is off, there is a change.

Maybe someone else might not have noticed it, but Slade's been around Wayne almost nonstop since he was rescued, and to _him_ it might as well be a beacon on a hill during a dark night. Impossible to ignore. Impossible to miss.

The moment his mask is off, Wayne becomes more _human._ His behavior is less hunched and defensive. He seems more alert and focused. Slade inspects the mask piece just in case, but it's just a piece of metal, meaning the change is entirely psychological.

Before, he was muzzled like a dog, and so he acted like one.

Of course the change isn't all encompassing; he still growls at Slade when Slade offers him a cloth to clean off his face with, and does what he can to keep his distance, but it's a good, positive change just the same. Slade lets Wayne handle things on his own time, and when that time turns out to be too slow, he runs another hot bath to lure Wayne in so that he'll rub off the dried blood.

It works, but Wayne doesn't remember he's supposed to _remove his clothes,_ so he simply climbs in fully dressed.

By the time the water's gone cold and Wayne's willing to get back out, the dried blood's gone, scrubbed away at some point or another. WIth the clothes soaked and cold, he tolerates Slade helping him out of his clothes and into new ones: some jeans and a t-shirt, rather than the bodysuit.

It's apparent almost immediately that he doesn't like it. He picks at it constantly, and his distress is palpable. The change is too much, Slade decides, so the moment the body suit has dried out he offers it up and watches as Wayne speed-strips (apparently he _is_ capable), redressing into the suit.

It's closer to what he wore as a Talon, form-fitting and tight, and yet it's clearly what Wayne wants.

Slade's not sure what to make of that, really.

He knows that Wayne doesn't need to eat or drink (he hasn't the entire time they've been together), but he offers him some drinks anyway. The muzzle holds his jaw too tightly closed to drink normally, requiring Slade to dig a straw out of one of his kitchen drawers and offer it up. Even the act of getting the straw in his mouth takes far too long, but once he has, Wayne greedily drinks several glasses of water, looking up to Slade for more once he's finished the one in front of him.

"That's enough," Slade says after the fifth. He's worried that Wayne's not actually able to tell how full he is or isn't; that he'll just eat or drink indefinitely, unable to self regulate. He can barely imagine the state of Wayne's stomach, which has probably been sitting empty the whole time.

And then, because he thinks he desperately deserves it, Slade goes and watches some TV.

He wants that normality, the return to Wayne's routine, and it's fascinating to watch the little differences as Wayne sits in one of the armchairs, his legs pulled up to his chest, his posture just a little bit more relaxed then it was before.

When he takes Wayne to his room that night, he makes a point of gesturing to the still unused bed pressed up against the wall.

"You should use that," he says, hoping Wayne understands. "Lie down on it. Spend the night there. More comfortable."

Wayne grunts softly, and ignores him. When Slade checks the camera, Wayne's still sitting just where Slade left him, left in the room alone.

 _Oh well,_ Slade thinks to himself. _That's a problem for another day._

He sleeps, and he's of the opinion that the sleep is well deserved.

Wayne seems more docile the following day, less aggressive. Maybe he's thankful that Slade's removed part of his mask, or maybe he's still on shock, baffled by the feeling of _air_ on his skin. When Slade has breakfast that morning, he provides Wayne a glass of orange juice, and Wayne patiently shoves his straw into it, sipping slowly. He seems less ravenous, less _desperate_ to have something in his stomach, which tells Slade that he probably _can_ tell how hungry he is or isn't.

Good, because Slade doesn't have a clue how Wayne's digestive system works, if it works at all.

When someone knocks at the door, Slade double checks the cameras before letting Jason in. He wasn't expecting him, but it's not as if he's unwelcome.

"I got part of the muzzle off," Slade says before Jason can catch sight of him. "He's been drinking a bit and seems to prefer the muzzle off. I'd like to get the whole thing off before long."

Jason makes a face.

"Can we not just call it a mask? Please?"

"It's a muzzle, kid," Slade says with a shake of his head. "No point in trying to pretty it up, or pretending like that isn't the reality of it. Better to face it head on."

This is something he won't give on. He's not going to let Jason act like the Court didn't torture Wayne. He's not going to let him act like they treated Wayne like a person and not a dog. There's nothing they can do but face the reality of it, cruel and awful but impossible for Slade to ignore.

Jason doesn't reply. He makes a small noise of distress, inaudible to anyone without enhanced hearing, and then turns away to go and find Wayne.

Wayne's in the living room, watching the TV as he so often is. Slade's not sure it's the TV he likes, or if it's the high backed armchair. He seems to like having his back up against something, and Slade doesn't want to speculate why.

"Bruce?" Jason calls, and then when Wayne doesn't move, he steps towards him, taking a hesitant seat on a chair nearby so he can look. So he can study what his face looks like beneath the muzzle that's hidden it. Pale. Unhealthy.

Considering he's dead, there's not much that can be done about that.

"Slade's got a job he's going to do for me today, but if you'd like, I'll stay with you."

Slade isn't sure if Jason's telling him to tell him, or if he's looking for an actual answer, but he doesn't get one either way. Wayne simply stares at him, deeply wary, and even if Jason clearly _tries_ not to show his disappointment, his shoulders sink a bit.

Finally, when it becomes obvious he's not going to get any other response, Jason turns in place to look at Slade.

"What should I know?"

"There's nothing to know. Tell him what you want him to do. Point. Short words, if you can. He doesn't need to eat, or sleep, or even drink. His room's first door on the left down there." He gestures towards Wayne's room, but he assumes it's fairly self explanatory. Taking care of Wayne is, nine times out of ten, a simple matter of making sure nothing's on fire right then.

Jason's face twists, apparently assuming there's more to it.

"Have you tried... I don't know, enrichment activities? Things to help jog his memory?"

"Right now he's working through all the seasons of Jeopardy, so no. You're going to have to give him some time, let him get some routine. I was more focused on the _physical_ side of things, like the muzzle."

Maybe once that's off he can think about the rest, but it's not like he's an expert. Really, this is the sort of thing he'd drop some money on an expert for, only what the fuck possible expert could there be? Brainwashing and deprogramming is close, or maybe someone who deals with extremely traumatized children, but neither of those really _work_ without a ton of modification.

He's probably going to have to read a lot of papers on the subject and cobble something together to try.

He is _not_ looking forward to it.

"You've got my number," Slade says, tapping his fingers against his side. "I assume I should be heading over shortly?"

"Put on something nice, and then yeah, you should probably go."

Jason's eyes drift to where Wayne is, and then he shakes his head.

"Go on," Jason says. "I'll call you if anything happens."

Slade just hopes nothing _does_ happen.


	17. Chapter 17

It is not the first city council meeting Slade's sat on. They're an excellent place to get a feel for who's involved in city politics, and a place public enough that his presence is rarely, if ever, noticed. When he's scouting a target, a city council meeting is almost always among his top choices.

Really, he thinks there's an art to it. He knows just where to sit (amidst the crowd, but not dead center), just how to position himself. He gets there a bit early, when some people are already sitting, and grabs a seat. He sizes up those who are already there, watching for anything odd or out of place.

Or anyone stupid enough to wear an owl logo on their person.

No one ever said the Court was _smart,_ after all; they're arrogant to a fault.

Unfortunately for him, he's not the only one checking the situation out. Five minutes before the meeting starts, as everyone is finding their seats, Barbara Gordon arrives. She's got a seat near the front, well away from where Slade is sitting, but of _course_ she stops to scan the room before taking her seat, her eyes fixing on Slade as she does.

He's not going to pretend like he doesn't see her. There's no point—she's too smart for that.

So instead he offers her a brief nod, a _yes, I see you, and you see me._ He's not trying anything at the meeting, and while she takes her seat as normal, he's confident she is already figuring out a way to keep an eye on him. Maybe hacking the room's cameras? That's what he would do, anyway.

The meeting gets underway with all the grace of a wounded animal. It stops and starts, never quite attaining anything like _flow._ Slade gets the distinct impression that the council is unfamiliar with itself, several people being new, or at least new _enough._ He listens to Councilmember Goodwin discuss a budget issue. Councilmember Esparza brings up an issue with animal control. Slade, in the meanwhile, skims through the agenda for the meeting, composing a suitable lie to explain his presence there. He doesn't get his chance to put his plan into action until they open the floor for comments; he's third in line then.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to actually _lie_ all that much. When it's his turn, he stands and talks at length about a potential decision to move power lines underground in a part of the city, about all the possible risks and downsides and how they'd have to rip up the street several times over if there was any issue. He thinks he makes a convincing argument, but of course he never once addresses the real issue: that he's got a weapon cache perilously close to the planned construction, which would probably require some last minute moving if they went ahead.

Once he's said his piece, he sits down and goes back to what he _should_ be doing: studying the various political players involved.

Beyond the fact that a lot of them are clearly new (not surprising, considering it _is_ Gotham), he notes that Rossini seems to be throwing his weight around without it being contested. Even if he ranks equally with most of the others, he _clearly_ has something else going for him.

Slade makes a note to look into him, but doesn't notice anything else particularly out of place.

He knows what's coming as the meeting wraps up, and he's in no hurry to deal with it, so he takes his time. He lets most people filter out of the room, and then heads into the hallway, fully expecting to be accosted.

He isn't, to his immense surprise.

Barbara Gordon is nearby, obviously having been waiting for him not far from the door, but she isn't alone, and she can't give him more than a brief glance before her attention is stolen away by the man in front of her. One of the councilmen—either March or Goodwin, considering the color of the suit—who appears to be engaging her in a very serious, very involved conversation. Barbara looks like she's eager to get away, probably to make sure Slade doesn't slip away, but she also seems... bothered? Cornered?

The man's being overly pushy, and Barbara Gordon has too much of a reputation to let herself tell him to fuck off, so Slade opts to intervene rather than having Barbara chasing him through the building. He walks right over, inserting himself into the conversation without pause.

"Oh, am I interrupting?"

The man—March—falters, looking towards Slade as if he's genuinely shocked someone would _interrupt_ him. Slade's poker face is perfect, a nice, friendly smile at the man.

"You... were," he says after a moment. "But I suppose I can wait. I'll give you a call when I have some free time, Miss Gordon." March shoots Slade a disappointed look and disengages, drifting away as Slade (and Barbara) watch him go. Only once he's out of earshot does Slade turn back to her, raising an eyebrow. She seems flustered, and at first he assumes it's because of whatever March was just talking about.

And then she speaks.

"I suppose I should thank you for saving me."

"I didn't know you were the sort of person in need of _saving,"_ he replies dryly. She's never needed much help from anyone, let alone from _him._

"He's convinced that Rossini is up to something and a danger, and needs to be kicked off the council. Even if I don't _officially_ have any control, he knows I have sway with the police, and he's hoping I can get them to investigate Rossini for corruption and bribery."

"And he's wrong?" Slade asks. Rossini being corrupt _would_ explain the feeling he'd picked up.

"And he's right, but we can't hope to do anything about it right now. He's backed by Maroni."

Ah, that explains it.

Barbara's expression goes sharp as she turns her attention fully to Slade, eyes narrowing as she scrutinizes him.

"I'd assume you're scouting," she finally says. "If you were here to actually do a job, you wouldn't have decided to come over and chat."

"Could I not just be here for legitimate reasons?" He asks, and she raises an eyebrow, clearly doubtful. "City council wants to fuck around near one of my safehouses. I'd prefer they didn't, since it would save me a lot of hassle," he says casually. No issue revealing that: the work he discussed is a dozen blocks long, and he could have a safehouse near any one of them.

She clearly doesn't believe his story, and she's right not too.

"Well, you've come and said your piece, so find somewhere else to do your business. We have enough to deal with as it is."

Do they know Jason's up to something? Is the _enough to deal with_ a reference to the court? He's actually not sure. He doesn't have much of a sense of how things work with the Bats, or what they're currently working on. Jason doesn't talk about what he's working on, and Slade doesn't see him enough to know anything beyond that he _is_ working on other things.

"Well, you'll be happy to know I'm not going to be fighting any of you, so you can relax."

She doesn't look convinced by that _at all_. Probably rightfully so. Slade generally doesn't lie, but he _does_ mislead. He does say half truths, just like he is right then, and she damn well knows it.

"If I find out that you're here to cause trouble, Slade..."

"Then you'll beat me up, just like you kids always plan to, I know. Take a deep breath, go home, get some rest. You look tired." She does. There's bags under her eyes she's done a good job of hiding, but Slade doesn't miss things like that. What's keeping her up later than usual? What's running her so ragged? Does she think Jason's sneaking around, up to no good?

Barbara scowls at him and then turns on her heel, marching away and leaving Slade behind without another word.

All together, Slade thinks it went pretty well, but he's not sure Barbara would agree.


	18. Chapter 18

Slade isn't expecting any trouble. Wayne's been well behaved when out of Slade's line of sight, and since the implant was removed, he hasn't shown any interest in escaping. Slade figures that Wayne sees him as a new handler, someone who orders him around and gives him missions. Maybe Wayne thinks living in the house _is_ a mission, or maybe he's just used to having time between jobs.

Slade doubts he's normally _at liberty_ between missions, but maybe he remembers when he used to live normally. Maybe hanging around watching TV is familiar to him in at least some way.

Who is he kidding? Wayne's never sat on a couch and watched a game show in his life.

He's riding a high as he pulls up to the house, a job well done with new information to feed back to Jason, but his brain screeches to a halt when he spots Jason.

_Outside._

He's sitting on the front step, his head buried in his arms, the picture of misery. The picture of _something has gone horribly wrong._

Slade parks in record time, throwing himself out of the car and jogging to where Jason sits. Jason doesn't even look up, which hints to him that whatever happened, it's over and done with rather than being immediately time sensitive, but that does little to calm his nerves.

"Jason!" He barks sa he approaches. "What's going on?"

The obvious answer, of course, is that Wayne has escaped. That he's gotten out, and Jason isn't able to find them, and now he's convinced Wayne's dead (or _more_ dead) or lost or something even worse.

"It's fine," Jason mumbles into his arms, inaudible to anyone who _doesn't_ have enhanced hearing. "He's not hurt, he's just inside, I just... I just need a moment."

What the fuck? It's just _fine?_

"It's obviously _not_ fine, because you're outside when you're supposed to be watching him." What if Wayne's escaped? What if he's gotten out a window? "Tell me what happened."

Jason taking his time to pull himself together might be acceptable in another situation, but right then there might be _danger_ or _risk_ and Slade doesn't have time for it. When Jason takes too long, Slade reaches down, grabbing Jason by the shoulder to try and snap him out of whatever misery has taken him.

Jason's hand pops up automatically, revealing puffy red eyes and a face streaked with tears. He's been crying, but more than that: he's been crying for an extended period of time.

That's enough to make Slade falter, suddenly unsure of his decision to interrogate Jason. He doesn't think he's ever seen him cry. Even in terrible, dire situations, he's the sort of person who gets _angry_ when upset. He's the sort of person who turns to fists and fury, not tears.

"Just go inside," Jason says after a moment, his voice cracking as he speaks. "It doesn't matter. It's— everything is fine."

Everything is _not_ fucking fine, although Slade's getting the impression that whatever happened, it's a lot more minor than what he expected. A lot more _personal._

He barely knows how to deal with his own emotions, let alone anyone else's, but that isn't going to stop him from trying.

Slade takes a seat on the step beside Jason, mentally running through ways the conversation might go. Mentally composing speeches and metaphors and analogies that might satisfy whatever misery has struck Jason. He suspects that it's simply Wayne's current state that's done him in; it's the first time he's been around Wayne for an extended period, the first time he's seen the way he moves, the way he _exists._ The first time he's seen that Wayne doesn't eat. Doesn't go to the bathroom. Doesn't sleep.

He exists, and right then, nothing else.

"I was just... being stupid," Jason finally says, apparently having clued in that Slade's not going away. "I knew how he was. I knew what to expect. You've been... you've been painfully clear about it. Painfully obvious about what I should know. But fucking... I let myself get hopeful. I let myself think about what _might_ happen. That when he was alone with me, he might... he might recognize me. That there'd be some spark of... of who he was. And there wasn't. The whole time I don't think he even recognized me as a _person,_ let alone his son. I could have... you could have replaced me with a robot giving him directions and it wouldn't have made any difference."

Oh.

In a situation like this, hope is the greatest poison of all. That hope—that there'd be some recognition, that there'd be some sign—was eating Jason up inside even _before_ he stopped by.

And now it's torn him up inside, and Slade doesn't know how to console him. He _does_ think Jason should have known. He _does_ think that this is what Jason should have expected. He _was_ clear about it all. And yet he knows none of those things is going to make Jason feel any better. None of them are going to improve the situation.

He is left only with silence. He sits there, the seconds ticking into minutes, trying to come up with something to say. _Anything_ to say.

He has nothing, so instead he reaches over, wrapping an arm around Jason's shoulders. He isn't good at this kind of physical affection, but he figures that it's better than nothing.

He's not Wayne, the one Jason clearly wants, but he'll have to do.

They sit there for a long while, and for once, Slade's mind is clear. It's not spinning off a million different directions, running through options and possibilities.

Instead, it's just... quiet.

Slade has no idea how long they're out there before Jason finally says something, clearing his throat and pulling away. Slade withdraws his arm, and Jason reaches up, wiping at his eyes one last time.

"You should go inside on... check on him. I'm going to... to head back to my place and get some sleep. Let the others take patrol for tonight."

Slade can't just let him go without warning him, so he gets it over with while keeping things brief.

"I saw Barbara at the city council. She thinks I'm up to something, but I think she assumes I'm there to kill someone on the council. I don't think she's figured out there's a connection there."

Jason makes an unhappy noise as he pushes himself to his feet, rubbing at his face in a way that has nothing to do with wiping away tears.

"I'll let you know if she does. Probably just... won't deal with that tonight, but tomorrow, maybe."

What Slade would do to be a fly on the wall for _that_ conversation... Barbara's a smart woman, and she's not going to be easily dissuaded by anything other than a well crafted lie. She'll sniff out any trouble in record time, and get to the bottom of it twice as fast.

He's going to have to be on his toes if he wants to get anything past her.

"Let me know," he says after a moment, straightening up and stretching out. "I'll let you know if anything comes up."

Even though he's hardly done anything in the last hour, Slade still feels like he ran a marathon. He's ready to sleep, and offers Jason only a quick nod after that, turning away to go inside.

He thinks he deserves that sleep, frankly.


	19. Chapter 19

Wayne is not attempting to escape when Slade enters the house. He is, in fact, literally right where he was when Slade last left the house: on the couch, watching TV. A nature documentary, rather than a gameshow, but his position is almost identical.

"Table," he calls. "It's time for dinner."

Wayne's accepted the routine enough that he doesn't need to be poked and prodded into acting. He makes his way to the table to sit while Slade shoves a meal into the microwave, and he's settled in by the time Slade sits to eat.

It's business as usual, but it shouldn't be. Slade understands why Jason is so upset, but he simply doesn't have the same connection with Wayne he did.

He's more able to accept Wayne as he _is,_ rather than what he was.

He doesn't try and talk to Wayne that night, sending him off to his room as usual before crawling into bed himself. He should be relaxed—the whole job's a damn _vacation_ compared to what he's used to—but there's a tension in his shoulders that refuses to let him sleep. When he finally _does fall asleep,_ it's not a particularly good rest.

He feels less than enthused by the prospect of another day when he wakes up the following morning, but he's only just brushing his teeth when there's a _bing_ from his phone.

He checks it and is unsurprised by the sender—Jason—and _very_ surprised by the contents.

 **Jason:** I think I should tell them the truth.

The message is intentionally vague—most likely paranoid that someone might be reading their messages—but clear enough to Slade. He hadn't expected Jason to come to that conclusion so quickly. Realistically, it was inevitable Jason would have to tell them before long, but he'd assumed Jason would drag it out longer. That he'd desperately try and protect them from the reality of it.

Apparently not, though. Maybe he's realized that being alone and isolated isn't doing him or _anyone else_ any good. No reason to drag it out.

 **Slade:** You have any plans for how?

 **Jason:** Invite them over to your place, tell them there?

Ah. There's the catch: Jason wants _Slade_ to tell them. He should have seen that coming, and can't help but roll his eye at the realization.

 **Slade:** I assume you want me to explain?

Jason doesn't reply immediately, probably stewing over the question for a moment before he finally manages to come up with an explanation.

 **Jason:** If you would.

He offers no explanation or justification, to Slade's surprise. No _you have a better memory_ or _you have a better idea of what he's gone through._ Just _can you please do it_ and that's it.

 **Slade:** That's what you pay me for.

Jason doesn't reply to that, and Slade gets back to his usual routine. He has no idea when the Bats are going to come busting down his door, but he's expecting at least _some_ notice from Jason before they show up. It's not as if he can have Wayne wandering around for a slow explanation. That kind of gives the whole thing away, doesn't it?

It's maybe a little after five—a lot earlier than he expected—when he gets the message from Jason.

 **Jason:** We're on our way over.

Slade grunts at the late notice and gets to work herding Wayne into his room. He goes without protest, and even, to Slade's surprise, sits down on the edge of the bed. He seems to think of it like he does the couch, which is a tiny, microscopic step forward, Slade supposes.

The safehouse is already doomed, so Slade doesn't bother wasting his time trying to disguise it. When everything is done with, he'll have to abandon it, maybe even burn it to the ground. There's too much incriminating evidence, and just because _Jason_ is willing to work with him doesn't mean the rest of the family will feel so charitable.

He's hoping they will, but he knows better than to put any money on that.

Of course, Slade suspects the _we_ is the whole group, and he's proven right when Jason knocks at the door. The whole lot is there—Dick, Tim, and Barbara—and apparently Jason hasn't bothered to _warn_ them in any way, shape, or form, because the moment Slade opens the door three sets of eyebrows shoot up in unison.

"I _knew_ you were up to something," Barbara hisses at him, and Slade simply rolls his eye, stepping aside and gesturing for them to come in. There's hesitation, even at that, but after a moment Dick opts to head inside, with everyone else filing in after him. Jason brings up the rear, looking very much like he just ate something putrid.

"If you're going to throw up, do it in a toilet," Slade chides him as he passes, earning a furious look in response.

Whatever the Bats are expecting, it's apparently not a completely normal looking house. They look around as if expecting to see guns on every wall, or hidden traps tucked into corners. They do not expect to see a little tray to hold TV remotes on a side table, or a couch that looks straight out of an Ikea catalog. They gawk, although they don't quite reach the point of gasping, and only once they've done so do they allow themselves to gather in the living room, the largest part of the house, to talk.

"I assume there's an explanation for all this," Dick says, shooting looks at Jason just as much as he is Slade.

"There is," Jason insists, and then immediately turns to Slade, looking for help. "Slade will explain."

It's cowardice, plain and simple. Jason doesn't want to be the bearer of bad news, so he's putting the role on Slade.

"We're just letting _Slade_ explain things?" Tim asks. He seems the most wary of the lot. Before all this, he had the most involvement with Dick, a general understanding with Barbara, and a mutual understanding with Jason. Tim, on the other hand, he's seen relatively little of. Sure, Slade has a pretty good understanding of what makes the kid tick, but that knowledge isn't a _personal_ understanding, forged from experience the way it is with the others.

"We can trust him on this," Jason insists, still looking just as strained as he was when he first showed up at the door. "Please, Tim, this is important."

That's enough to quiet Tim's objections. None of them sit down, arranged in a loose U with him at the center.

He's in the spotlight, and Slade's never been one to beat around the bush.

"I'm sure you've all noticed Jason acting strangely the last while," he says, setting Jason squirming from the word go. He's not going to insult the intelligence of the rest of the bats by pretending as if they completely failed to notice. "Three weeks ago, while investigating the Court of Owls, he breached a base unexpectedly that contained an active Talon. When he was unable to restrain it on his own, he called me in."

Eyebrows are going up, but of course they are: Slade hasn't given them the most key, vital piece of information.

"It was Bruce," Jason blurts out, ruining Slade's setup. That's not how he would have said it at all, and he's quick to clarify.

"It was a Talon made from Bruce Wayne," he says amidst gasps of shock and surprise. Clearly, none of them had any idea what Jason was hiding, even if they _did_ know he was hiding something. "He's not alive, but he's not dead, either. He's been heavily brainwashed by the process that made him a Talon to the point where, mentally, he's unrecognizable."

He does what he can to mitigate their expectations. To let them know that the Wayne they're going to see is not the Wayne they remember. He doesn't want a repeat of what happened with Jason, doesn't want anyone to expect an overly-eager hug. He doesn't want anyone to expect _recognition._

"And the court?" Barbara asks. Dick and Tim don't look like they can speak at all, their faces contorted in pain.

"They've been informed I have him. If we're lucky, they don't recognize you're involved at all. Without question, they'll want to get him back, so it's an ongoing issue we're going to have to deal with."

"We?" Tim splutters. "This isn't a _we_ thing. We're going to take Bruce home, and then we'll... we'll get him whatever help he needs, and we'll deal with the Court on our own."

"Tim—" Jason starts, only to get interrupted.

"Slade doesn't need to be involved in this. I agree with—"

"Would you just _shut up and listen to me?"_ Jason yells, voice rising to cut through the din. "None of you have even seen him. None of you even know the _risks._ He's a Talon, for fuck's sake! How do you expect us to keep him secure if he tries to escape?"

"We've handled Talon's before," Dick says, absolute certainty in his voice. "This is a family matter." He pauses, glancing briefly towards Barbara, and then amends his sentiment. "The Bats can handle this."

Oh boy.

Dick—and Tim, for that matter—clearly have the idea firmly in their head that they can handle it. They _clearly_ expect to be just able to corral Wayne, and they haven't even _met_ him. Even worse, Jason's clearly being convinced, or at the very least doesn't want to argue with his brothers about the matter.

Maybe he's hoping that when they see Wayne, they'll give in.

Barbara, the only one who _isn't_ directly related to Wayne, is quiet. Slade suspects her opinion is more neutral, but then it's also entirely possible that she just doesn't feel it's her place to weigh in. Her eyes keep flicking between Slade and Jason, looking for insight on a puzzle with no clear answer.

Slade simply hangs back. Unlike Barbara, who really _does_ have a say, he does not. Wayne isn't family to him. He's a job, and while he's being paid handsomely, the money he has already is enough. If they take Wayne, that's just fine with him.

There are other things he could be doing with his time.

The whole group—Barbara included—discusses what they're going to do without him, and Slade lets them. He makes himself some coffee, offering it to the group without anyone taking him up on the offer, and only really tunes back in to the discussion when Dick turns to face him.

"We'll take him home."

Slade isn't sure which _home_ that is. The manor's gone. To Dick's? To Barbara's? The Belfry, which he knows they've been using as a base?

It doesn't matter. Not his business.

"Go ahead," Slade says with a wave of his hand. "When he escapes, I'm going to add an extra finder's fee on top of my usual fee, though."

Dick scowls at him, and Slade smirks right back. It feels inevitable that they'll lose Wayne. The only question is if they'll lose him to the streets, or to the court first.

No matter what, he's certain he's not going to be out of the game for long.


	20. Chapter 20

He doesn't see Wayne off. Really, he sort of expects they won't be able to get Wayne out the door at all, but apparently they _do,_ because before long Dick yells that they're _going_ and he hears the door shut.

And then the house is quiet.

Slade doesn't think for a second that he's not going to be called back into action. What he has is a _break,_ and nothing more.

He makes good use of it. Makes sure the house is clean. Goes and picks up groceries, filling his cabinets that are sorely depleted. Picks up some other supplies while he's out, just so he doesn't have to make another trip in the future.

He watches a game on the TV (blessedly free of Jeopardy, for once), and then heads to bed at his usual time.

He figures he'll give it five days, and then contact Billy. See if there are other jobs available in the area, since the Bats are going to be too busy to go after him.

The following morning is much the same. He keeps to the same sort of routine, fully expecting to have to return to it soon. There's no point in disrupting the whole thing, only to have to go back to it within a few days.

He's not expecting to go back to it _immediately._

He's in the middle of eating his breakfast when there's a knock at the door. He freezes in place, mentally processing the sound, and after a moment is confident it didn't come from his front door.

It came from inside the house.

Operating on a whim, Slade winds through the house to the secure bedroom where Wayne spent the night before last. He pauses, stares at the door, and then finally reaches up, unlatching it and opening the door.

Wayne is waiting inside, the same way he has every other day, and Slade lets out a small laugh at the realization.

Wayne's not just escaped, but he's escaped and recalled to his point of origin.

He also smells awful, which makes it easy for Slade to guess part of the route he took. He wrinkles his nose, stepping aside and gesturing for him to head to the bathroom. He's grimey, on closer inspection, winding through Gotham's streets (and sewers) on his way back.

Slade opts to run a hot shower, which Wayne climbs into fully clothed, and then starts to run a hot bath for him.

Getting him out of the shower (and his clothes) and into the tub is relatively easily: he tells Wayne to strip, and when he seems hesitant to swap over to the tub, he starts turning down the temperature until the water's only lukewarm. That encourages a quick swap over, with Wayne sinking down into the water with an expression that might be bliss. He leaves him in there, soaking off the worst of the smell, and then takes a moment to consider his options.

While he knows, without question, that the Bats have lost Wayne, none of them have contacted him. They're definitely trying to locate Wayne as fast as possible before it becomes necessary to call Slade in, blissfully unaware that Slade's ten steps ahead of them. He contemplates messaging Jason, and instead decides to let them stew for a while first. Let them worry.

What they did, after all, was a stupid decision. They cut the _foremost expert_ in Bruce-Wayne-the-Talon out of the loop, and he escaped as a result. The fact that he returned to Slade and _not_ the Court means that Wayne's allegiance has apparently shifted. Probably he thinks Slade's his new handler, the house his new base of operations.

Or maybe, more charitably, he likes the hot baths, juice boxes, and old TV reruns.

Slade's not sure which one he believes.

When the water starts to cool down, he redresses Wayne in a new set of clothes. The old suit's been destroyed, since it's beyond the point where it can be cleaned through. The new clothes are carefully chosen to suit Wayne's tastes: form fitting that hug his body like his old Talon suit did, but fluffy, and well insulated to help keep him warm.

He seems to like it, and takes his usual place at the couch, breakfast forgotten. There's even a new blanket there, which Wayne ignores until Slade holds it up for him. Only then does he pull it around himself, nestling against the arm of the couch.

The TV isn't even on, a fact which Slade remedies before settling in himself.

He keeps expecting Jason to contact him, or maybe Barbara. Surely _one_ of them has to be sensible enough to realize they need help.

But the minutes tick by without a call, and Slade feels his frustration grow. It feels negligent to not contact him. As far as they know, Wayne's out loose on the streets or _worse._ For fuck's sake, Wayne could be with the Court again, undoing every bit of good Slade's managed to do since he was rescued.

The anger builds and builds, threatening to boil over. It's so stupid and arrogant and he's composing lectures in his head as the minutes turn to hours.

He misses lunch.

Wayne, however, does not miss dinner. Slade is roused from mentally running in circles by Wayne standing up, neatly folding his blanket before replacing it on the couch before turning to Slade.

For dinner, Slade realizes. Wayne's picked up the routine, down to the minute, and now he has expectations.

Slade grunts and gets up, settling Wayne in at the kitchen table with a juice box (safer for his floors than a cup with a straw) while he prepares something in the microwave for himself.

When he finishes eating and Jason _still_ hasn't called, Slade reaches a breaking point. While Wayne patiently (and slowly) sips his juice box, Slade makes a call, already mentally mapping out how he wants it to go.

Jason takes a few rings before he answers. When he does, he sounds strained, his voice raw.

Not having a good time, to say the least.

"Your last payment didn't cover the three days that came after it," Slade points out. "You've still got to cover that."

"I'll cover it." Jason's voice is clipped, direct. He wants the conversation over with. There's a sudden hitch to it, right at the end, and then Jason's voice drops low. "Can I hire you again with the contingency that you _don't_ tell the others, or get them involved?"

Oh dear.

"Your big brother not want me around?" Slade asks, the anger kept carefully out of his voice. Stupid. Dick should know better.

"He thinks we should be able to handle the Court on our own. That we're putting you at risk and getting you involved unnecessarily. Tim doesn't trust you, but with Dick... it's more complicated."

Stupid.

"And should I assume Wayne managed to escape?" Slade asks, his eyes fixed on Wayne as he works his way through the tail end of his juicebox. The juice is warm by then, which is the only time he's willing to drink it, and Slade makes a note to leave the juice out on the counter for the future.

"He... slipped away last night. Dislocated Tim's arm in the process, and we lost him near a Court base. We grabbed our gear and went to get him, but he'd already been removed from the base by that point, so we're chasing his trail to... somewhere."

Ah. It feels like a point of pride that Wayne came to him, even when a Court base was nearby and accessible, but that's not enough to stem his anger.

"Dick should have come to me for help _first._ The moment he got away, you all should have been calling me to let me know. He could be dead _for good,_ or who the fuck knows what kind of stuff the Court would do to him?"

 _"Slade,"_ Jason's voice sounds so fucking desperate and broken that it dumps a bucket of water on the fire of Slade's anger. It's difficult—maybe impossible—to continue being angry in the face of such abject misery. "Whether or not he wants your help, _I_ do. We need to find him. Please."

Slade grunts, is silent for a moment, and then lets out a sigh.

"You're paying that extra fee I mentioned."

"Deal." Jason doesn't even ask how much it is.

"Stop by the house, in civilian clothes, and we'll leave together. I don't want to show up at the Court's building having gone straight from my house, and I don't want to go _back_ to my house without a lot of distraction along the way."

It's complete bullshit. They're not going anywhere, after all. But it's necessary, because he wants Jason to _see_ Wayne. To see that he's fine. That things are alright.

And then he wants to rub it in Dick's face, because things could have been so much worse than a dislocated arm.


	21. Chapter 21

Jason arrives not ten minutes later, dressed in civilian clothes and looking vaguely like he's been hit by a truck. His eyes are puffy and sunken, his posture slack. He hasn't slept the whole goddamn night, without question, and he gestures for Slade to follow without a word before starting to turn away.

"Jason," Slade interrupts, gesturing for him to follow. "Come inside."

"We don't have time for this—"

"You have time."

Slade refuses to listen to anything else, striding right back inside and forcing Jason to go after him, sputtering in indignation. Jason doesn't even get his shoes off, walking after Slade as he sputters uselessly, trying to get Slade to stop.

And then he reaches the living room, spots Wayne on the couch under his blanket, and slams to a halt.

"W— _What?_ Has he been here the whole time?!"

"Showed up this morning." Which, now that he thinks about it, doesn't make sense. How the fuck did Wayne get into a _locked room?_

That's a problem for another time, though.

"You— Why didn't you call us? We've been searching everywhere for him!" Jason spins to look at Slade, but Slade simply stares him down, his eye fixed to Jason's.

 _"I_ knew he was safe. You didn't. You both should have called me immediately, and instead you let him run loose. He could have gone back to the court. He could have hurt someone on his way back. For all we know, he _did._ So you can cram it with the lecture, _Jason."_

Jason goes quiet, cowed by the lecture. Maybe even startled by the realization that Wayne _could_ have hurt someone. People could be dead and they might not ever find out about it.

"What you did was stupid," Slade continues. "Get your heads out of your asses and do what's right for _him."_

Jason's eyes drop to the floor, and Slade doesn't feel even slightly bad about it. This is what he wrought. 

"Can I... can I at least tell the others?"

"Yes, you can tell them. Tell them he's safe here, and that if they want him to think of wherever the fuck you took them as his home, they're going to have to do a _much_ better fucking job."

He watches as Jason gets to it, messaging people in rapid succession. Do they have a group chat he's sharing it to? Or is it individual? It's hard to tell, because there _are_ multiple messages, it's just not clear which are replies.

Slade has other things on his mind, though.

"I need you to tell me what happened with Wayne when you left with him."

Jason glances up from his phone, confused for a moment, and then clues in as to why Slade is asking.

"He came out with us when I asked, no problem, and got in the car with us. Mostly just sat there for the trip back to the cave, but he started to get... I guess antsy? Then we got to the parking under the Belfry, opened the door, and he was _gone._ Out the door, scrambling away... Tim tried to stop him and nearly lost his arm from it. We managed to follow him out of the garage but lost him in the middle of Gotham pretty quickly."

"Let me guess," Slade says with a snort. "Belfry's garage is cold?"

"I... yes?" Jason looks mystified. "Wait, you think—"

"I don't _think._ I _know._ Wayne hates the cold. It's the most effective deterrent for his behavior right now. If I don't want him touching something, I just have to stick it in the fridge. The cold _deanimates_ him, so he avoids even chill. That's why..." He nods towards where Wayne sits, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. "He's in a big blanket. That was a reward for coming back."

Jason frowns at that.

"They're going to say that you trained him to come back, you know."

"Then they're idiots. I haven't _trained_ him, I've just figured out how he works. Hot good, cold bad. His mouth was dry, so he likes liquids, but only if they're room temperature or up. His mouth is stuck closed, so he needs a straw."

Jason, almost without meaning to, glances back towards where Wayne sits.

"Can you not remove the rest of the mask?"

"Attached too firmly. Don't want to traumatize him prying it off, because removing it is going to be traumatic. Better to let him get used to having the mouth open, and settle in a bit more, and _then_ take it off. Maybe while giving him a bunch of heat packs and other things he likes."

"To help him heal."

"Because he enjoys them," Slade corrects. "Yes, it'll help him heal faster if he's hot, but I'm more concerned about mental distress at this point. He's in a delicate position. If I fuck it up, there's a decent chance he'll just refuse to deal with me ever again, or start treating me like a real member of the Court. None of that's what I want, so I have to keep being a nice, _friendly_ presence for him unless you want him dislocating some more arms."

Or worse, but he doesn't say that. Jason's miserable enough as is.

His phone beeps, and Jason glances down again, frowning at his phone.

"Dick says he's coming over. He wants to see that Bruce is alright. He's... pretty beside himself."

"He should be," Slade mutters under his breath, but Jason's focused on his phone and misses it. "How far is he out?"

"Not long, I don't think. He was already on his way back to Bludhaven when I messaged, so he's just... stopping by."

Slade barely has time to go fetch a drink for himself—he doesn't offer Jason anything, doubting he'd accept or even that he's staying—when there's a knock at the door. He glances towards it, preparing to go and answer, when Dick simply opts to let himself in. It would be enough to irritate Slade any other day of the week, but Dick's reasons for it are clear: he's in his Nightwing costume, barely hidden under a jacket, and obviously wary of being spotted by the neighbours.

There's a bigger problem, though. A problem that tears everything apart at the seams the moment Dick steps inside.

Slade's never been entirely sure what Wayne was being used for by the Court. He's not clear what their objective was for him, or what they had in mind. The instant he sees Dick, that no longer becomes a question: Wayne was trained to _kill vigilantes,_ and Slade knows this because the moment Wayne sees the suit he's going straight for Dick with every bit of power he possesses.

Slade isn't even clear what he yells—stand down? stop?—and it doesn't matter anyway, because Wayne's moving with a single minded focus. Nothing is going to stop him but physical force, and Slade isn't sure the others are going to be strong enough.

No, scratch that—they're _absolutely_ not going to be strong enough.

Dick isn't fast enough (probably stunned that it's happening at all), but Jason's a bit more aware in the split second it takes for Wayne to cross the room. He literally knocks Dick out of the way, facing the full brunt of Wayne's fury, but only for a second as Wayne spins immediately, redirecting towards Dick. Dick's already back on his feet, scrambling backwards, but Wayne is simply so _fast_ that all he can do is raise his arms, using his forearms to take the blunt of the damage.

Slade feels impossibly slow. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Dick stepped inside by the time he reaches them, joining the fray without holding anything back. He can't worry about hurting Wayne; he'll heal through whatever damage Slade may do to him, but Dick and Jason aren't going to heal through whatever damage Wayne will do to _them._

He grabs Wayne's wrist, twisting his arm hard, and yanks him away from the boys. One or both of them has to be smart enough to realize they need to get out of the house, out of Wayne's line of sight, because they scramble backwards as Wayne turns his anger on Slade.

No, it's not even anger. His expression is completely blank as he hammers his fist into the side of Slade's head, his eyes cold as Slade has to roll with the blow to keep from getting a concussion that might put him—at least temporarily—out of the fight. Wayne's holding nothing back, and as good as Slade is, Wayne's healing factor _is_ better. He keeps the house warm for Wayne's comfort, and now it's backfiring.

A part of him hoped Wayne would go docile once Dick was out of sight, but he keeps lunging towards the door, forcing Slade to intervene. He can't let things drag out any longer, so he lunges to the side, rolling into the living room.

For a moment, Wayne is torn. He knows (rightly so) that Slade's up to something, but his core desire is to go after Dick.

He goes after Dick, but the hesitation is enough. Slade retrieves the hidden gun under the couch, turns, aims, and fires.

The freeze blast—shamelessly copied from Freeze himself—catches Wayne in the doorway. It's not as effective as what it was stolen from, but it's enough, encasing Wayne's shoulder in a thin layer of ice and dropping his body temperature precariously.

Wayne _howls,_ not in pain, but in distress, reaching up to claw at the ice only to recoil when his fingers touch it. Slade grabs Wayne's free arm, pulling him back in the house (he can only imagine what the neighbor must think) and towards the bedroom.

The pain of being frozen appears to have snapped Wayne out of whatever mental state he was in, because he no longer looks like the murderous killer he was a moment ago. The noises he makes are small and pathetic, closer to a scared animal than a trained Assassin.

So Slade changes his own reaction as well.

"It's alright," he says, trying to sound reassuring as he redirects towards the bathroom. "We're going to run some hot water and you can get rid of the ice that way, alright?"

He runs the water as hot as it'll go, and then starts carefully dumping handfuls onto the ice, letting it melt away. Wayne's skin is blue under it, the skin of a dead thing, but once he's in the spray some color starts to return, the damage healing itself.

Wayne doesn't seem to remember what he was doing, but his fear of the gun, the moment he sees it, is damn near overpowering.

Even so, Slade doesn't dare leave.


	22. Chapter 22

Slade stays with Wayne as he soaks in the heat from the water, regularly topping it up to keep it warm. The less distress Wayne is in, the better, but it's still a relief when Jason quietly calls out from around the corner.

"Slade? Is... everything alright in there?"

Slade's on high alert, watching Wayne like a hawk, but there's no obvious reaction to Jason's voice.

"Everything's fine in here. Wayne's gone back to normal, I think. Peek around the corner for me?"

Jason does, and Wayne doesn't make any move to attack, so a moment later Jason steps inside properly. his sleeves are torn, but it's impossible to tell how bad the damage was. He's already bandaged up his arms, hiding whatever cuts or bruises are beginning to form.

"He's alright?" Jason asks again, even more pointedly looking at Wayne where he sits, fully dressed, in the tub.

"He's fine. Had to hit him with my backup plan, but the damage has already healed. Mentally? Shaken, but it's hard to say how badly he'll be affected by this."

Jason goes pale, apparently having not seriously considered the long term consequences. Not surprising, considering how fast things went by. He's probably been more focused on Dick.

"Dick?" Slade asks, because it feels like an obligation to ask.

"Shaken. He didn't get seriously hurt, but it's still..." Jason pauses, then makes a general wave of his hand, obviously meaning _the whole of it._ Slade could have figured that much out without any gesture at all.

Slade doesn't talk to Jason next, instead turning to Wayne and addressing him directly.

"Wayne. I need you to stay here with Jason. He'll keep your bath hot, alright?"

Simple sentences. Direct instructions. He seems to do just fine with Jason, and Slade's hoping that'll stick.

"Shouldn't you stay with him?" Jason asks, seeming almost panicked. "After what just happened—"

"What just happened most likely happened because of the costume. That's the obvious trigger, but I'm not in any hurry to do a _vigorous test_ or anything like that. He's been fine with you in the past, and right now you'd have to pry him out of a hot bath with a crowbar. You just need to top it up semi-regularly so that it stays warm. Make sure the water level doesn't drop."

Jason looks hesitantly towards Wayne, but Slade doesn't consider it up for discussion.

"Where are you going, though?"

"I've got to talk to Dick."

Slade expects that to be the end of it, but it isn't. Jason reaches out, catching Slade's wrist before he can go. Of course Jason isn't strong enough to actually _stop_ him, but Slade stops anyway, turning to look at Jason with no small amount of anger.

He doesn't jerk his wrist free. He doesn't break Jason's fingers. He just _glares,_ and Jason gets the picture, abruptly releasing Slade's wrist and clearing his throat.

"What just happened... Dick's really upset by it. He's shaken up. He just... he thought we were getting Bruce back, and then all this played out, and now... just be gentle with him, alright?"

Slade isn't sure that he has it in him to be _gentle._ Not after what an absolute clusterfuck things have been. Taking Wayne was a stupid idea, not contacting him was stupider still, and showing up dressed as nightwing as the cherry on the shit sundae.

He leaves Jason in the bathroom and heads outside. Dick's car is parked at the end of the drive, and it's only because of his enhanced vision that Slade can see that Dick is inside it, sitting in the dark. He walks right up, popping the passenger side door open, and climbs inside, taking his seat and closing the door beside him before finally turning to Dick.

He looks like a mess. He isn't crying, but he obviously has been recently. His eyes are swollen and bloodshot, his gaze unfocused as he stares into the distance. He doesn't acknowledge Slade in any way, simply ignoring his presence as if he isn't there at all.

"Grayson," Slade says, trying to be more formal than he usually is. When Dick doesn't respond right away, he adjusts. "Dick."

"I need you to tell me the truth," Dick suddenly says, the words starting fast and getting faster. "I need you to be completely honest with me, no fancy words, no softening the blow. Is he even in there? Or is that just... is that just Bruce's body, and everything that made him _Bruce_ is gone?"

It's a hard question. How much of Bruce Wayne remains? How much of it was stripped away and replaced? When he died and was reanimated, was that fundamental part of _himself_ removed?

Slade doesn't know. He doesn't know how anyone could possibly know. The question is too vast, too _fundamental,_ but he can at least understand why Dick is asking it.

He wants to know if his father is ever coming back, and the anger that was sustaining Slade is no longer enough, sputtering out in his chest as he tries to find an answer that will lessen Dick's misery without lying to his face.

When Slade speaks again, it's something close enough to the truth that it might as well be.

"I don't know. I'm not sure anyone can know. They put a lot of effort into breaking him down, taking him apart to his most fundamental level. Right now he doesn't even recognize his own name consistently. Maybe, when he gets better, he'll remember things. Maybe it'll come back to him, and he'll know who you all are. Or maybe he won't. Maybe that part of him—those memories, those experiences—are gone forever. Here's the thing, though: it doesn't really matter."

Dick glances up, squinting at Slade. He doesn't understand yet how it could _not matter._ He hasn't thought about the two scenarios.

"Whether deep down he's Bruce Wayne or some entirely new person, it doesn't change what you're doing. If I told you he wasn't ever going to remember, would you throw him out? Kick him to the curb, make him somebody else's problem? You've been a pain in my ass since the day we met because you _refuse_ to do the sensible thing. You're too much of a bleeding heart, so no matter what the outcome ends up being, you're going to stick around and help him anyway."

Dick mumbles something that sounds like an obscenity directed at Slade, and then buries his face in his hands. Maybe he's expecting a hand on his shoulder or some other comforting gesture, but what he's just heard is the best Slade can manage. If _you'd help anyway_ isn't enough, that's too goddamned bad.

"I need to go check on him," Slade says after what feels like two years but probably isn't a full thirty seconds. "I'll send Jason out."

Dick offers him no goodbye, staring at nothing once again as Slade excuses himself to return to the house.

He's had more than enough _feelings_ for one day.


	23. Chapter 23

Slade sends Jason away at the first opportunity. He doesn't know if Jason would prefer to stick around longer to be sure Wayne is alright, or if he wants to go, and he doesn't let Jason discuss it, because it doesn't matter. Whether Jason wants to stay or to go, he's going.

He shoos Jason out of the house and then gets down to the tricky business of getting Bruce dried off and into new clothes. It's easier than he expected, actually, because now that he knows Wayne goes after anything warm, he just has to dry a towel so it's nice and warm, convince Wayne to trade out his wet clothes for it, and then do the same to his new outfit. It takes maybe fifteen minutes to get Wayne fully dried and dressed, and then Slade does what he can to resume the usual schedule. Meals at the table. TV. Sleeping in the room.

Of course, there's one more deeply important matter to deal with before he can send Wayne to bed.

How the _fuck_ did he get into the house?

He checks the cameras, rewinding through the hallway footage (nothing) before checking the room itself. He rewinds, watching Wayne knock at the door, move back to sit on the edge of the bed unmoving, and then, around three...

Crawl out from under the bed?

Oh no.

Following a hunch, Slade returns to Wayne's room (with Wayne trailing behind him the whole way), lifting up the bed to find a relatively small hole punched through the floor from below. He leans over, squinting down into the darkness. What runs under the house? He's got the schematics from when he built the basement, but this side of the house isn't supposed to have anything under it but dirt and...

Ah, probably pipes. Slade leans down, letting his eyes adjust, and confirms another theory. There's an empty space where the pipes run into the house under Wayne's room, and he's simply _expanded_ the space as he climbed up. His sense of direction is impressive, and the fact that he managed to find the right house... did he navigate above ground? Or is his sense of direction so good he could navigate blind?

Slade squints at Wayne a moment longer, and then simply looks back at the hole and shakes his head. Securely covering it is going to be a hell of a job, so he does the best he can, covering the hole with a tarp and making sure that at least no animals are coming up through it in the meanwhile.

That's going to be a problem for tomorrow.

"Don't go down there," Slade says with a frown. "I'm going to leave your door unlocked, so if you need something, you come find me."

He assumes Wayne can understand longer sentences, and phrasing it how he has flirts dangerously close to it being an out and out order. He sort of needs it to be; if Wayne gets lost in the sewers, he's going to have a big problem.

It's hard to tell if Wayne's going to comply, though, and when he leaves him in the room, closing—but not locking—the door behind him, he makes sure to adjust the camera to alert him if Wayne leaves the room... or moves much at all. He's already sitting on the bed the way he normally does at night, and Slade takes a moment to ponder the implications of that. What's he doing? The Talon equivalent of power saving mode?

Or is he actually thinking, pondering his circumstances?

The alarm doesn't go off that night, and neither Jason, Dick, nor anyone else bother him the following morning. Wayne seems perfectly content to get right back to the old routine, showing no signs of distress or really anything at all.

It's like the whole thing with Dick didn't even happen, and Slade finds that more concerning than any other possible option. If Wayne was _upset_ by it, it would mean he's affected, and instead, to him, it's business as usual. It means everything that made him attack is just _business as usual._

It can't be. He has to figure out how to ensure Bruce doesn't attack anyone in costume he sees. He's going to have to desensitize him somehow, but it's not going to be easy.

No, it's going to be very hard indeed.

He hears from Barbara the next day, and her message is short.

 **Barbara:** Jason explained everything. Are you going to the next city council meeting?

Slade hadn't given it even the tiniest bit of thought, but it stands to reason that his explanation still stands. There's not really any reason _not_ to, and if it lets the Bats get to the bottom of the Court's plans, all the better.

 **Slade:** I can if Jason would like. You would have to ask him.

Jason is, after all, still his boss. Still the one paying. Barbara and the others can certainly _discuss_ with him, but Jason calls the shots until the others start putting money on the table.

Apparently Barbara and Jason are together, because Jason texts him a moment later.

 **Jason:** I want you to go. Should I come watch him?

 **Slade:** Not like I have anyone else in mind.

He orders what he needs to make the repair that evening, and spends the following morning repairing the worst of the damage under Wayne's watchful (or maybe just confused) eye. Realistically, the damage is too great for Slade to really _fix_ it, and the room is too incriminating to bring in an outside crew. He'd need a specialized crew of people _in the know_ to do that, and frankly, the safehouse isn't worth that.

When he's done the job, he'll burn it to the ground and forget it ever existed.

With the mess cleaned up, Slade turns himself to other priorities—or specifically, his lack thereof.

He doesn't know what to do next. He's not sure what he should be focusing on. The access key, which is going to need specialized equipment to handle? The muzzle, which is going to need much the same? Finding the Court? Trying to assess if Wayne's really in there?

All good options.

In the end, he settles into a chair in the living room as Wayne watches some history documentary or another, and calls Wintergreen.

"Billy," Slade says, earning himself a snort.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd fallen off the face of the Earth. For you, being on a single job for so long is... unusual."

"You've seen the pay," Slade counters. "The Bats have money, the jobs easy... bit like a vacation." Not really. Not anymore. But it's easier to act like it still is.

"I assume you're calling because you need something."

"I've got a flash drive from the Court that's probably booby-trapped to hell and back. I've got a shielded room in the basement to go digging around it in, but I don't have everything I need here. Can you send me one of those data analysis packs you cooked up?"

"I have one handy. I'll have it there by tomorrow, if you'd like."

"I would like," Slade agrees. "I also have a... trickier problem. He's got a metal mask attached to his face. Probably stainless steel, but maybe an alloy. I think it's actually attached to his skull, and I need to remove it."

"Might I recommend a surgeon?"

Slade opens his mouth to say _no_ before deciding that it's probably worth considering. Removing the mask would be... extremely difficult, and the likelihood that he could do serious damage is high. While Wayne heals, the healing isn't perfect. If it was, the muzzle would be completely off, the bone having regrown where it's attached.

"Did you have someone in mind?"

"I have a few people I could suggest, but let me shop around and see who's available... and who can be trusted. Would it be possible to perform the surgery without them being able to clearly see who they're working on?"

"If I covered the upper half of his face and his body, sure. It's not like he has a distinctive mole or something."

"That would make things easier. I'll look into it and give you a call."

They make smalltalk for a while after that, and it's only once Slade's done, hanging up the phone, does he realize that Wayne's head is turned, staring at Slade with blank, impassive eyes.

Listening.


	24. Chapter 24

A package from Wintergreen arrives just after lunch, but Slade doubts he's going to have time to deal with it, so he simply tucks it away and goes back to his usual routine. He doesn't quite get to _ignore_ it though, because Wintergreen calls him with suggestions for a surgeon shortly later.

"Would you prefer _sketchy and highly unethical, but unlikely to ask questions,_ or _highly skilled but will probably want some sort of a cover story?"_

"I want someone I can be confident isn't going to blackmail me if they figure out who the patient is." That's priority number one. The information _can't_ get back to the Court. There's a shuffling of papers on the other side of the phone, and Slade can picture Wintergreen shoving files into the trash.

He always did like having actual _papers._

"Gretchen Kelley?" Wintergreen proposes. "Entirely legal, worked for—"

"Luthor," Slade finishes for him. "She's out. We can't be sure where her allegiances lie, and the last thing I want is Luthor getting anywhere near this."

Another file gets dropped in the trash.

"Bradford Thorne, sometimes goes by _Crime Doctor._ Guarantees confidentiality, already in Gotham, costs an exorbitant amount in exchange for his services, since he normally works for those who can't just go to a hospital."

"Too risky," Slade says, dismissing him immediately. "If he's working out of Gotham, there's a chance he's already got some connection to the Court. That's the worst case scenario. I'd take it off myself before I let him near Wayne." He considers for a moment, drumming his fingers on the table. "Anyone more... morally upstanding? The sort of person who wouldn't ever work with the Court."

"The number of people who wouldn't work with the Court but _would_ work with you is short indeed," Wintergreen says with a sigh, but it's not _no one,_ so Slade simply waits as the correct file is chosen.

"Charles McNider. He has less of a reputation in the underworld than most of the others, and primarily operates out of New York. He lost his medical license due to _blindness,_ apparently, but that hasn't stopped him from providing medical assistance around that area. Anyone jumping around in a leotard in the New York area is likely to go to him to get stitched up, but he's also for hire, probably to pay his bills. He's a do-gooder to the end, and you're going to need a good cover story."

"I can manage that." He already has something in mind that he thinks will work. "Get in touch with him and pass him on to me. I'll need to know when he's coming so I can prepare."

"I'll put him in touch. Should I tell him it's urgent?"

"Tell him it isn't an emergency—I can wait a few days—but that it is time sensitive." Wayne isn't going to _go bad,_ but he also doesn't want to drag it out, either.

"I'll let him know."

Jason shows up not long before dinner, looking even more stressed than he was the last time. It's easy to understand why, but it's still _irritating,_ and Slade ushers him in with a huff of air.

"Business as usual. He's watching a movie marathon or something right now. Let him watch whatever he wants, when you eat dinner tell him to come sit at the table with you—"

"Does he eat?"

"He can't open his mouth, so no. But he eats _with_ me because that's part of the routine. He'll sit patiently. Just keep him on routine."

"And if something comes up?"

"You'll manage," Slade says with a roll of his eye. "You've got my number if you somehow can't."

* * *

Barbara isn't at the city council meeting that evening, so his presence goes (apparently) unnoticed. It's more of the same, the only difference being that he knows to keep a mind on Rossini, watching the play of the council politics. Some seem to give in to Rossini easily, while others are more intent on fighting him. March, the one who was talking to Barbara the time before, seems the most combative, calling Rossini out several times during the meeting.

But it's the fact that, once the meetings over, March heads straight for _Slade_ that really raises Slade's eyebrow. He's _acting_ friendly enough, but there's no reason he should be coming towards Slade at all.

Even if he is.

"I just wanted to apologize for last week," March starts, causing Slade's eyebrow to rise even higher in simple disbelief. He's struggling to wrap his head around why March would be apologizing for him, considering they exchanged barely a dozen words.

"I don't think you have anything to apologize for."

"I think there is," March counters, which is novel if only because Slade isn't used to having people stand up to him as much as March is. "I got upset you had interrupted a private conversation, but it wasn't really private, and I was foolish to think it was. I let my irritation get the better of me, and I was fairly rude."

"Agree to disagree," Slade counters, hoping to diffuse the conversation and send March off with a good impression but no further desire to pay Slade any attention. "I don't see you as having done anything wrong."

March holds out his hand for a shake, a bright, movie-poster smile on his face, and introduced himself.

"My name is Lincoln March. I recently got elected to city council."

So much for _no further desire._ March is obviously intent on _befriending_ him at a minimum.

"Slade," he says. Easiest to keep with his real name, and he doesn't offer his surname to avoid having to burn an identity. It isn't necessary, after all. He's not a public official, not someone who _needs_ to give a formal introduction. "It's good to see someone with such an interest in Gotham on the city council."

"You should try out yourself sometime," March says. "We always need new blood."

"Politics are not for me," Slade counters, eager for the conversation to be over. He suspects March wants something, but it's hard for him to guess at what. More support against Rossini? A connection to Barbara?

"So how did you know Miss Gordon?"

Bingo.

"Old family friend."

"You knew her father?"

Well, Slade certainly knew Jim Gordon, but the reverse certainly wasn't true. Gordon knew him only as Deathstroke, and the relationship they had certainly wasn't _friendly_ by even the vaguest stretch of the imagination.

But Gordon isn't around to contest that, so Slade lies through his teeth.

"When I was younger, and only professionally. I wish I'd gotten to know him better."

"He was a good man. Gotham owes him a great deal, and I wish I'd gotten a chance to work with him. The rest of the force is doing their best, but... he left big shoes to fill for the new commissioner."

And they're doing a shitty fucking job of it, as far as Slade's seen. The GCPD's never been the same since he died. They'd been hostile to the Bats from the moment Gordon was gone, significantly changing the dynamic of the city, and backslid back into their old ways.

And thinking about it, it's hard not to _think_ about it and start to wonder. Gordon died only a few months before Wayne did. The timing feels deeply suspect, even if his cause of death supposedly wasn't.

Is it possible Gordon _didn't_ die of a heart attack? Is it possible the court killed him?

"What's on your mind?" March asks, and Slade realizes he hasn't responded in a few moments. Too long a pause to be anything but thinking, and Slade's forced to wing it.

"Was thinking about the city's police, and how that all played out. They used to work so closely with Batman and the others. Now it feels like they're constantly at odds with one another. I can't help but feel that Jim Gordon was the one who bridged the gap, and losing him cost Gotham dearly."

It's an extremely common sentiment, and everything Slade's said is taken, almost word for word, from something a reporter had said in the months afterwards. He's saying it because it won't stand out, and because it's likely March agrees.

Most of Gotham does, after all.

"Agreed. Did you know some people even thought he might have _been_ the Batman?"

That, at least, is new information, but only because of how stupid it is. Gordon doesn't fit the physical profile, he doesn't have the means, and the timeline doesn't line up. That isn't even counting all the times he was seen together with the Batman, but Slade puts on his very best _mildly interested_ face and gives March another look, as if he's genuinely considering it.

"Really? You think it's possible?"

"Doubtful," March says with a shake of his head, and Slade lets out an actual sigh of relief. If he's going to have to talk to someone, he'd rather they weren't a complete idiot. "You've lived in Gotham for a while, right? What's your theory?"

Slade hasn't said a thing about how long he's lived there, but it's a safe assumption. Casual visitors don't drop in on city council meetings. Especially not more than once.

"Dead," he says, because that's _everyone's_ theory. "Killed by someone who got lucky. Maybe they didn't even realize they got him. Lucky shot."

"You know what I think?" March says, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I think it was Bruce Wayne's death that did the Batman in."

That's enough to make Slade pause, the attention he's been giving March suddenly very real.

"What makes you think that?" March is dead right, but he fucking shouldn't be. Even without _actually_ knowing, Slade's confident Dick would have gone out in the suit for weeks afterwards, disguising the connection to Wayne's death. Wayne trained them too much for anything else.

"Batman still showed up after Wayne died, but their heart wasn't in it. We didn't see much of them, nothing major or significant. Just... appearances, mostly. A few robberies stopped, here and there. Fewer and farther between. A few months later, Gotham isn't even getting that much."

Okay, March is _again_ right, and Slade knows he'll have to play it off. He snorts, doing his best to sound doubtful.

"Wayne? Really? _Brucie Wayne_ is the Batman?"

"Oh no," March says with a wave of his hand. "Don't get me wrong, I don't think Wayne _himself_ is the Batman. I just think it was his money paying for the whole thing. When Wayne died, whoever he'd hired to fill the suit probably realized he wasn't going to get paid anymore and stopped. Maybe Wayne's kids told him to stop, or maybe they didn't even know. Either way, I think they're connected."

Maybe March isn't as stupid as he thought. It's a good idea, one Slade could see _himself_ coming up with if he wasn't already in the know on the whole thing, and he mulls it over, imagining how it must look. All the evidence March must have considered to reach that conclusion.

"What about the rest of the Bats? You think he was paying all of them, and they just stuck around out of the goodness of their hearts, or something?"

"Maybe some of them. Maybe some of them were independent from the start. Batman seemed to act as their leader, probably under Wayne's rules. Wayne said no killing, so the Batman and his team doesn't kill. Wayne's gone, so now those rules are... well, relaxed, if not gone."

"None of the Bats have killed," Slade points out. Jason has, technically, but knowledge of Red Hood is apocryphal at best, and the average person isn't going to be able to draw any connections. "Certainly not since Batman died."

If nothing else, the whole thing is a fascinating peek into what Gotham thinks happened to their hero.

"Ah, but they have," March says, wagging his finger. He seems delighted to say it at all, his voice going quieter as he speaks. It's clear to Slade that he's been sitting on something, and now with someone he can mention it to, he's all too happy to. "You know the Joker?"

Slade looks offended. He's not even acting.

March catches himself and lets out a small laugh. _Everyone_ knows the Joker, so his turn of phrase is pointless. "It wasn't the GCPD that killed him."

That's news, even to Slade. The official story has—and has always been—that the GCPD killed him. Slade had chalked it up to Gordon being gone, and a lack of _control_ reigning over the city. Not that shooting Joker was a bad thing, really. Given a choice, Slade would have shot him in the head ages ago.

He was the worst kind of client.

"Wait, the _Bats_?" Slade says, catching onto the insinuation. "You think one of the Bats did him in?"

They wouldn't. Or at least most of them wouldn't. It's hard not to think of Jason, of how much he _hated_ the Joker, of what he might have done without oversight. Jason used to work almost entirely on his own, and while he's joined the rest of the Bats, that's a more recent thing.

Was killing the Joker his last act before he joined them fully? Was it the vigilante equivalent of getting a hooker for the groom at a bachelor party?

_One last murder for the road?_

"I'd say that someone really hated the Joker, but everyone did. Apparently they found him beaten to death, and decided it would be better if the GCPD took credit. Good for morale, and all that. Can't say I agree, but it's impossible to prove either way, now."

There's no way to know but to ask, and Slade isn't sure he wants to.


	25. Chapter 25

By the time he gets back to the house, it's late, and Jason doesn't hesitate to point that out.

"You said two hours, tops."

"I got caught by one of the council, who decided to talk my ear off."

"Anything interesting?"

It would be the perfect time to introduce the idea, and a part of Slade _is_ curious, but he can't quite make himself ask. It isn't his business. It doesn't really matter.

And his focus needs to be on Wayne.

"How was he?" He asks, nodding his head towards the living room.

"Fine. Joined me for dinner like you said. Then settled in."

Jason leaves not long after, and even when he's gone, Slade still can't help but wonder if he should have asked. Would it have hurt to ask? Would Jason have been angry?

And perhaps most importantly, _why does he care?_

It doesn't matter, and yet that desire to know remains just the same.

He distracts himself with other things, and _other things_ inevitably means Wayne. He lures the other man into the kitchen, has him sit as if they're going to have a meal, and then sits down himself to do something he probably should have done a while ago.

"We need to have a talk, you and I," he starts, waiting for some sort of reaction. He doesn't get one, and he's deeply unclear about how much Wayne is or isn't understanding. "I should have talked to you a while ago, but I didn't, so now I'm making up for that. Maybe I'll ask you some questions, maybe I won't. You obviously can't talk with that thing on your face, but you can still communicate. Unless all you Bats were incompetent, you should still know sign language, or at a minimum..." He trials off, considering, and then taps his fingers on the table. Wayne's hands are in his lap, meaning it's impossible for it to be an _accidental_ signal if he does it. "One tap for yes, two for no."

No response. Slade's starting not to even bother looking for one.

Originally, his plan was to tell Wayne as little as possible. To hope that if he one day said _Jason_ it would be because he had remembered. That plan's been shot for ages, because he has no way of knowing what Jason did or didn't say while he was babysitting. Did he tell Wayne about what the others were doing?

It doesn't matter. Wayne's progress is slow enough that he figures priming him with information couldn't hurt.

"Your name is Bruce Wayne. Before this, you were the Batman, and the rest of the group were your kids. Dick, Jason, and Tim, anyway. Barbara's not yours, but she might as well be at this point." Not like she has Gordon to contest that anymore. Did Wayne take her in after her father died? Probably, but Slade doesn't know. He never bothered to look into it, and he sure as fuck isn't going to now.

It's just another thing that doesn't _really_ matter.

"You were taken by the Court of Owls. They turned you into this... a Talon. Made you do their work. Jason and I rescued you." Does he even remember that fight? It's hard not to feel a bit frustrated as he talks. Too many unknowns. If he was signing up for this mission now, he'd decline. Too many mysteries. How long will it take? What's the end goal?

A million questions and no answers.

"Do you remember that? Us finding you in the apartment?"

He isn't expecting a response, but he waits to give Wayne the time to respond anyway before moving on.

"Jason and the others have been making do while you've been gone. Officially, you're dead, and you've been that way for three years. The public doesn't know that you were Batman, so they know Bruce Wayne is dead, but no one knows what happened to Batman. Since you died, a lot's changed in Gotham. Seems like the Court's vying for control, for one. Jason and the others are trying to stop them, but it's hard to manage when they're stretched so thin."

Wayne sits almost perfectly still, staring at nothing. He isn't even _looking_ at Slade, his line of sight missing Slade by a few inches to Slade's frustration. He almost wants to move over, just to let himself pretend that some of it's getting through.

He doesn't think it is.

"They're all hoping you're going to improve. That, in time, you'll go back to how you were before. I'm more skeptical. Not every wound heals clearly. Some leave scars, and what they did to you... well, they'll be big scars."

Some even literally.

"So what I need from you is communication. I can figure out you probably want something to drink because your mouth is dry. You want warmth, because it's more comfortable for you. You seem to like routine, and tight clothes. But you're already stretching the limit of what I can guess at. I don't know what you _need,_ let alone what you _want._ I don't know if you still feel hunger. I don't know if you're happy, or upset, or waiting for something. I don't know if you remember who you were, or if you even understand me. I don't need you to _talk,_ but I _do_ need you to _communicate._ Nodding. Tapping your fingers. Anything."

Slade braces himself. He's a skeptic by nature, a doubting Thomas to the last.

But it's hard not to get his hopes up at least a bit. Hard not to hope that Wayne will respond positively.

"Do you understand?"

Wayne continues to stare, unfocused, and Slade clenches his jaw. No reaction. No movement. Nothing.

"Fuck," Slade snaps, getting to his feet more quickly than he'd like. He should know better. He shouldn't move quickly around Wayne, not when his instincts are so split second and so deadly.

And yet even _that_ doesn't even matter, because Wayne doesn't move from where he's sitting. Doesn't react at all to Slade's anger.

It only makes it worse, and Slade lashes out, putting his fist through the wall.

Even as he does it, Slade knows what he's doing is stupid. He _knows_ it's stupid, shitty behavior that reflects terribly on his professionalism.

But he's getting nothing out of Wayne. He might as well replace him with a board for all the response he gets. Even furious, his teeth grinding together, Wayne shows no sign of response.

He's dead and acting like it.

"Just fucking do something!" Slade yells, and every bit of anger in him suffocates when Wayne _does._

It's such a simple, blatant gesture, and yet it sends Slade's head spinning. Wayne simply lifts his hand, taps his finger once on the table, and returns his hand to his lap.

One tap.

"Oh, son of a _bitch,"_ Slade hisses. He buries his face in his hand, rubbing at his temples as he takes a few deep breaths, processing everything that just happened. Processing that Wayne didn't respond to questions... but did respond to orders.

He doubts Wayne is understanding _everything,_ but he clearly is understanding at least _some_ of it. He understood that tapping his finger was what Slade was expecting. He understood the order to _do something._

How much farther can he go? How well is it going to work?

"If you understand what I'm saying, tap once." Is that enough of an order? Apparently so, because Wayne reaches up, tapping the table again.

Slade feels like he's just seen the fucking _light._ It's exactly what he needs, the answer he's been looking for. It's _communication,_ even if it's not in the manner he was hoping.

He'll take what he can get, though.

"Tell me: did you understand most of what I told you?" _Tap._ How far can he push it? How can he minimize the awkwardness of having to _ask_ for answers? "Are you just tapping once without understanding? Answer." _Tap tap._

"Do you know who you are? Answer."

That gets a tap, and Slade realizes his mistake. He can't ask for clarification without biasing the answer, which means he's going to have to be more careful moving on. Less questions that are going to require a follow up.

"Do you know who I am? Answer."

Another tap. But Slade's already working out ways around the constant need to demand Wayne answer him, and it all goes back to _why._

"Were you told to only speak when ordered to? Answer."

_Tap._

Alright. Easy enough to work around that.

"I'm ordering you to ignore that order. If I ask you a question, it's because I want an answer. Do you understand?"

Moment of truth.

_Tap._

With that one tap, things become infinitely easier. Yes and no are fine, but they'll be able to improve bit by bit. Expanding communication. With the mask off, Wayne will be able to talk, and that'll open up even more options.

It is, as far as Slade's concerned, the best thing that's happened since Wayne arrived.


	26. Chapter 26

It's late enough that Slade has to make a choice between continuing questioning Wayne and keeping to the schedule, and in the end he chooses the schedule. He settles Wayne into his room, heads to bed himself, and sleeps like a baby.

His morning is significantly less blissful, because he walks into the kitchen to find a hole in the wall he'd completely forgotten about. It's not that he's _embarrassed_ that he lost his temper, but he is annoyed with himself. He's supposed to be a professional, and dealing with Wayne is a _job._

Punching holes in walls isn't professional, and Slade heads to the garage, planning to make the repair before Jason can hope to drop by.

The wall's patched by the time he goes and gets Wayne, who's sitting on the edge of the bed right where Slade left him. He comes when Slade beckons, and joins Slade at the table without being told to sit.

"I think we made good progress last night," Slade says, pausing to consider how to phrase his question in a way that Wayne can easily answer. "Do you want to watch TV today?"

Nothing.

Slade waits for an uncomfortably long time, hoping for a tap or even a double tap, but gets no response.

"Answer."

Wayne makes a small, low whine of apparent distress, but doesn't tap.

Why the _fuck_ isn't he tapping?

"Do you not understand? Answer." More whining. Is Wayne trying to respond, only he can't? "Tap your finger on the table."

Wany does. He reaches up, tapping his finger on the table, but it doesn't feel like an answer at all. It feels like he's only responding to the order to tap his finger.

Slade isn't going to make the same mistake he already did.

"Stay," he says, punctuating it with a gesture, and then gets up and walks into his own room to let himself calm down. Last night felt like such a victory, and following it up with _this_ is beyond frustrating. He ends up doing push ups to burn off some of the frustration, and only returns—Wayne's still sitting patiently at the table—when he's sure he'll be able to think critically.

"If the answer is yes, tap once. If the answer is no, tap twice. If I ask you a question, I expect you to answer. Do you understand?"

It's the moment of truth... and Wayne taps his finger in response.

The fact that it works makes the answer feel painfully obvious, but Slade asks anyway, just to confirm.

"Do you remember last night?"

The answer does not come immediately. Wayne seems confused, unfocused, and when the answer does come, it's halting and almost wary.

_Tap tap._

Memory issues.

Breaking him down would have been difficult, if not impossible, with his full memories. Wayne was nothing if not strong willed, and turning him into a Talon would be infinitely easier if he couldn't even remember who he was.

Getting him to kill Nightwing would be impossible if he knew the connection, and yet he was apparently perfectly willing to try.

The bigger question is how bad the damage is. Can it be undone? Was it simple torture over an extended period of time that did the damage, or was it something more directed? A serum, a surgery... There are a lot of options, and for the first time since Wayne arrived in the house, Slade feels an urge to actually know about what happened to Wayne.

Before he was happy not not knowing, content to let whatever horrible answer was at the end of the mystery go undiscovered. It had felt like there was nothing to be gained from really investigating, but now...

Well, now there's no reason _not_ to know.

Wayne's still waiting for more questions, but Slade doesn't know what else to ask. Instead, he gestures towards the living room.

"Go set up like usual. I'm going to be busy, so you'll be watching TV like normal."

Wayne is perfectly happy to get settled in on the couch with his blankets and TV show, and while Slade's hesitant to reveal the hatch in front of him, it's inevitable that he'll have to do so. He waits for Wayne to be settled in before moving over to the shelves at the side of the room, bending down and lifting them as one whole unit.

They lift, but not easily. Part of the security to the room is that someone would have to be _extremely_ strong to lift the shelf (which he's added extra weight to, just to hammer the point home), meaning while he (and he supposes Wayne) can go in and out easily, the same isn't true for others who might be trying to get in. The hatch opens easily, and Slade descends into the small basement to get to work.

Calling it a basement is being overly charitable. It's more of a one-room command center or security suite, with a bank of small monitors set off to the side already showing views of the house. He flips the center screen to show the living room where Wayne sits, and then settles in at the desk to get to work.

Wintergreen hasn't slacked in his preparations. The package he's sent is a self-contained setup intended to let him analyze the access key. The room he's in is already set up to prevent any transmissions from getting out, but the setup Wintergreen's sent him is even more precise. He has no idea if the key's going to have anything _useful,_ but he figures it can't hurt to try.

He's not what he'd consider an _excellent_ hacker, but he knows his way around, and once he gets the access key into place it's not particularly hard to figure out. There's not all that much to it, really: the access key operates in tandem with the piece Slade cut out of Wayne to give him a set of direct and extremely simple directives. The exact mechanisms of how it works are lost on him, but he he understands enough to get the idea.

The most interesting part, by far, is the available commands. There are standard ones he's come to expect—stop, hold, sleep—and some more complicated ones, like one that's supposed to be used when Wayne's being introduced to a new handler.

But there are also _go to a place_ ones. It makes sense: the Court has a number of potential bases, and there's not just one single place they want Wayne to go back to. Depending on what's happening and where they are, there are dozens of places Wayne might be recalled to, and each of them is in the system once Slade's cracked through.

He pulls the coordinates, cross-referencing them against what he already knows. A few aren't bases, but landmarks, and one leads back to the place where Wayne was first found, but in the end Slade has eight sets of coordinates for likely bases. They're labelled, in the system, with simple numbers, but not in any particular order. Obviously they mean something to the Court, but they don't mean anything to _him,_ meaning any of them could be the main base.

He'll just have to find out.

Once he's absolutely sure there's nothing else to get from the key, he destroys it, taking it apart and obliterating the pieces to make absolutely sure the Owl's won't get it back. They probably have a backup, but it feels satisfying to get rid of it anyway.

Wayne's still on the couch when Slade pops the hatch, emerging from the basement. The moment he does, his phone _bings,_ alerting him to a missed call, and he checks it almost absentmindedly.

Crap. Not one missed call, but two: one from an unknown number, and then one from Wintergreen. He ignores the mystery caller, settling in not far from Wayne as he calls Wintergreen back.

"You called?"

"I most certainly did. I got your surgeon to agree to a meeting, only you were out of contact so he called me back. Where were you? I told him you'd be free."

"Down in the bunker," Slade says. "I'll call him and set up a meeting." He's about to hang up and do just that when Wintergreen interrupts.

"Slade." His tone is serious enough to make Slade raise an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"Make sure you have a good story ready for him."

Slade has given extremely little thought to the story he's going to give, or how he's going to set any of it up, but he's good at coming up at things on the fly. Even so, Wintergreen's warning is enough to make him stop and mentally compose a story before he gives the man a call.

"McNider? I was just returning your call," is Slade's greeting. He keeps things curt, professional, and refuses to say what the call is about. He knows _his_ stuff is secure, but he can't be sure about McNider.

"You would be Wilson?"

"That would be me. If you're available, I'd prefer to talk business in person." Standard enough operating procedure, and apparently even if McNider is new to the business, he's familiar enough to recognize it as such. "I was told you're in the Gotham area?"

Close enough to it that it's an easy drive.

"I am. Could you do lunch at the Stacked Deck?"

He swears he can _hear_ the disdain in McNider's voice.

"Would another location be possible?"

Slade's split between McNider not wanting to go because it's so blatantly _criminal,_ and he's still trying to cling to his _principles,_ or simply that he doesn't want to go anywhere near it because he's worried he's going to run into someone he knows.

"Ellies, on the north end," he says. "It's a hole in the wall diner." Not particularly well known, but Slade's been there a few times and he knows the layout. "Lunch at noon?"

"I can do that. Should I expect to work tomorrow, assuming we come to an agreement?"

A good question, and Slade considers his options. He's got maybe twenty-four hours. Can he reasonably get everything set up in time?

Of course he can.

"Most likely. I'll call you back if that changes."

"I'll see you there, then."

"You too."

The moment he hangs up, Slade gets to work. He's going to need a place to actually perform the surgery, because he sure as fuck isn't going to bring someone Billy described as a _do-gooder_ back to his safehouse.

And there's only one person in the area he can be _sure_ is going to have a meat locker that wouldn't mind some bloodstains.

He simply calls Penguin directly.

"Wilson. I thought I told you to call the way everyone _else_ does," is his greeting.

"Penguin. I thought I told you that if I wanted to be put on hold by a secretary, it sure as fuck wouldn't be yours."

"I've told you a dozen times, it's _Cobblepot."_

"Don't care. I need a secure location with a working meat locker I can use for a few hours tomorrow."

"As much as I do enjoy taking your money, you have just personally insulted me. So _who_ are you requesting this from?"

Slade decides then and there that if a job comes up to take down Penguin, he's going to take it.

"Cobblepot, do you have one available or do I need to call Sionis?"

Penguin is nothing if not easy to satisfy.

"I have one, but I'm going to charge you for the short notice."

They argue about price for almost ten whole minutes before Penguin finally relents, giving in to Slade's price if only to get him off the phone. Penguin is, for him, a fairly decent person to work with, simply because he knows that if he crosses Slade, he's going to end up dead.

Not that he trusts Penguin at all. He'll be bringing plenty of supplies to ensure the building Penguin provides is _actually_ secure, because he wouldn't put it past Penguin to stick a hidden camera in the corner of the room.

All of a sudden, Slade has a _lot_ to do, and he can't wait to get started.


	27. Chapter 27

Charles McNider is waiting for him when he gets to the diner, tucked away in a corner. He looks, frankly, unassuming. Not the sort of person anyone would be expecting to be meeting up with Deathstroke, let alone making an actual _deal_ with him.

Despite the fact that he's supposedly blind, McNider looks up as Slade approaches, thick goggles over his eyes the most distinct part about him. They stick out about as much as Slade's eyepatch, and as he takes a seat across from the man, he studies him carefully.

Mid-forties, nicely (but not _too_ nicely) dressed. His demeanor is somewhere between professional and actually wary, and it's clear to Slade that McNider is studying him just as Slade is studying him in turn.

"I don't know why I expected you in a mask," McNider says, and Slade snorts. It's a common misunderstanding. For something like this, meeting in civilian clothes is better. He's specifically made it all but impossible for someone to connect Slade Wilson and Deathstroke, and him showing up to a meeting isn't going to be _decisive evidence,_ even if McNider is working for the police.

"You were vouched for, so I'm not overly concerned. I understand you have conditions?"

"I do. I keep to my oath—even if I can no longer legally work as a doctor, I still have my principles. The man who put me in contact with you was cagey about what it was I'd actually be doing."

"You have my assurances no one's getting hurt by what you're doing."

It's hard to tell with the goggles in the way, but Slade's pretty sure McNider narrows his eyes.

"I'll note that you didn't say _no one's getting hurt."_

"I don't make promises I can't keep, Mr. McNider—"

"Doctor."

Slade's got just enough self control to not roll his eyes.

"Doctor. You know the kind of person I am. I'm not going to swear off working, but what you're doing will only be helping."

He's certainly skeptical, but he doesn't ask any more questions. Maybe he's desperate for money, or maybe he's just decided Slade's worthy of his trust for some reason or another. It doesn't really matter _why_ —only that he will.

"Are you free this afternoon?"

"I made myself free when we spoke yesterday. I'm in Gotham for the time being."

Wintergreen's already handled the price, and he'll handle payment when things are done, meaning Slade just has to get things done.

"I'll need a few hours to get everything in order. I'll send you a message with a location on the east side of town once it's ready. Simple keyword cipher, for security." It won't _stop_ someone hacking McNider's phone, but it'll slow them down, and that's all he needs.

"Keyword?"

"McNider," Slade replies, flashing a smile that shows too much teeth.

Now that he's had a few more minutes, he feels like he has a better sense of McNider as a person. He's stiff and wary, leaning into professionalism as defense. He might even, Slade thinks, be _afraid._

Probably rightly so. Slade has a reputation, and McNider has no reason to doubt that reputation. Slade is dangerous, and McNider's only there because...

Well, probably because he needs money. The problem with working for free with those who need it is that good intentions don't pay bills, and McNider's apparently realized as much.

Slade doesn't even eat, pushing himself to his feet with a nod.

"I'll see you this afternoon. I have things to get done."

McNider nods back, and turns his attention to his food.

He's already in Gotham, so Slade stops by the address Penguin's given him to investigate. It's standard enough—mostly empty warehouse with a working meat locker near the back. Empty, thankfully, but there's a table intended for cutting meat that he knows will work just fine as an operating table. He covers it with some plastic sheeting from the back of his car, and then gets to work confirming that Penguin hasn't planted any bugs or cameras on the premises.

He finds two, and destroys both. Penguin isn't stupid enough to try and bill him for them, and after another hour of sweeping, Slade can be sure there aren't any more. After all, _his_ equipment is vastly better than Penguins.

With the surgeon ready and the location secured, that leaves only one thing: Wayne himself.

Jason seems surprised that Slade's back so soon, having been called in at the last minute, but is all too happy to be on his way just the same. He has things to do, and being called out every time Slade needs to leave the house is clearly starting to wear on him.

The moment Jason's gone, Slade fiddles with the thermostat, cranking the air conditioning and starting to drop the house's temperature. He _could_ just use the gun and freeze Wayne in one go, but it seems less distressing to bring his temperature down slowly and let him fall asleep before icing him to make sure he's not going to wake up mid-procedure.

He bustles around the house, keeping himself busy and making preparations as he watches the temperature drop. It's slower than he'd like, and the urge to speed things up is high, but he holds himself in check, letting things play out as they are.

Wayne is buried under the blankets when Slade decides it's cold enough to move ahead, only the very top of his head visible. He doesn't generate body heat of his own, so the blankets aren't helping as much as they should be, and when Slade stands in front of him Wayne makes a small, distressed noise as he tries to snuggle into the blankets further.

"You're going to go to sleep for a while," Slade says. "But I need the blankets so you can do that."

Wayne makes another small, distressed noise, but doesn't let go of his blanket. He's slow, but he's not unconscious, and Slade knows he can endure even colder than this.

"I need you to go to sleep. Give me the blanket."

Wayne clearly doesn't want to, but the urge to obey orders is too strong. After a moment of clear mental struggle, he starts to untangle the blanket, handing it over to Slade.

His skin is unnaturally pale, tinged with blue. Warm, it would be almost impossible to tell Wayne was a Talon. Cold, it's impossible to ignore.

"Come on."

Wayne follows, his movements slow and stiff. Slade runs hot—he always has—but the cold's even starting to get to him.

There's an ice bath ready for Wayne in the bathroom, cold enough to put him under completely. Wayne recognizes it for what it is, going still when he sees it, distress obvious in his every stilted movement. He doesn't want to go in. He doesn't want to go under. Wayne's been conscious—sleeping isn't necessary for him, after all—for literal weeks and now that he's supposed to go to sleep, he's terrified by the prospect.

"You need to climb in there," Slade explains. He can force Wayne, but he doesn't want to. Better he gets in willingly. It'll be less distressing then it so clearly already is if he does. "I need you to be asleep."

Realistically, he needs Wayne to be _dead._ His entire plan hinges on the fact that Wayne can be mistaken for dead if cold enough, because getting a surgeon to perform surgery on a corpse is a lot less ethically dubious than on an unconscious man who almost certainly didn't consent to it.

Wayne looks at him, obviously hoping for a reprieve. For Slade to say he doesn't have to. But Slade stays firm, staring Wayne down until Wayne slowly starts to move towards the bath. He keeps the gaze even as Wayne starts to lower himself in.

He shakes, not from cold, but from anxiety, and once he's in, Slade settles in beside him, watching Wayne's consciousness start to drift away. It's a strange, almost fascinating process, not unlike watching someone die, only he knows that the end will be that much happier.

Better short term suffering for long term gain.

"Things will be better when you wake up," he promises as Wayne drifts off into oblivion.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A minor warning that this has some... surgery (?) in this chapter. It isn't overly detailed, and is mostly skimmed over.

Wayne's body is laid out in the back seat when Slade arrives at the warehouse, and he makes absolutely sure the car is parked and the door is shut before he removes him from the as-cold-as-it-gets car. He's wary of Wayne waking up before he can get him into the meat locker, but in the end he worries for nothing, and Wayne's still out by the time he arrives.

He covers the upper half of his face and his body with sheets, leaving only his mouth exposed, and then sends McNider the location. He waits by the entrance, watching the (extremely shitty) security cameras the warehouse has to watch the outside, and lets his mind wander through everything he expects will happen.

McNider doesn't make him wait long. His car is nondescript, which is nice, but he looks around when he gets out, obviously scoping the place out and looking for any trouble. Slade opens the garage for him (which has to be done _manually),_ and only once McNider is inside does he actually explain what he's going to be doing.

"I've already swept the place for bugs and cameras, so it's just the two of us, and we don't have to worry about being overheard."

McNider's got a bag with him, large and bulky enough that it probably has everything he'll need, but he doesn't set it down or anything, instead scanning the warehouse.

"So are you the patient? The man who contacted me was... vague."

Slade gestures back towards the meat locker, and McNider makes a face. He's apparently not stupid, though, because he catches on immediately.

"Is this an autopsy?"

"Not quite," Slade says. "Come on, it'll be easier if I show you."

He expects McNider to be hesitant when faced with a corpse, but once he's in the locker he walks right up, bending over to examine the muzzle. At least part of Wayne's face is visible, the skin peaking out pale as it's possible for a human to be, but most of him's hidden away, leaving little else to look at _but_ the muzzle.

"Is that _attached?"_ McNider asks, bending down. "As an aside, how's your night vision?"

"Better than a humans."

"Then kill the lights, if you will."

Slade wasn't expecting that, but he supposes it makes as much sense as a completely blind surgeon does. He heads for the lights, flicking them off and taking a moment to adjust.

McNider doesn't even need that. He strips off his goggles, looking around with what has to be _extremely_ good night vision. There's not an ounce of hesitation as he bends over to inspect the muzzle, suddenly seeming far more relaxed than he was before.

Slade decides he's curious enough to ask for clarification, even if it means bothering the man.

"You can see?"

"I was blinded in an attack on a patient," McNider explains, not looking up from his inspection. "The chemicals used to do so have caused unique changes to my retinas, and lead to me having perfect night vision."

 _Perfect_ night vision?

"Sounds useful."

"It's impossible to explain by normal medical science, and poses considerable risks. It also means I can't legally practice as a surgeon any longer. I can't have medical assistants, for example, because none of them would be able to see when I did."

"I'm guessing the goggles are something you rigged up to let you get by during the day?"

"They take advantage of my unique biology, but the vision they give is rudimentary at best. I wasn't aware you had an eyepatch until just now, for example."

Clearly McNider doesn't think he's a threat, because he's giving away a _lot_ of information. He isn't expecting to fight Slade, or to really have to deal with him in any way that could be construed as negative.

Good. That's far better for Slade, who dislikes every possible alternative. He _needs_ McNider to get the muzzle off, because most of the alternatives are significantly more likely to leak the information to the court.

"I _am_ going to need you to explain the situation," McNider says, reaching out to tap the muzzle. "Because I was under the impression I'd be doing surgery, not an autopsy. The man's dead."

Or appears dead, but Slade isn't going to correct him.

"I could give you the whole story, but it wouldn't help much. The man was taken from his family and... broken down. Tortured a lot, as you can imagine. They silenced him with the muzzle."

"And where did you come in?"

"Hired to bring him back to his family. I'd rather they not see him again with the muzzle still grafted to his face." Lies are so much easier to tell when there's truth to them, and nothing he just said was _strictly_ a lie. Just true enough to qualify, really.

"So you want me to remove it in such a way as to minimize damage, I imagine," McNider adds, bending down to eye level to inspect it some more. "Does the... _muzzle_ need to be intact on removal?"

"No. Feel free to damage it as necessary in order to get it off."

"Well good, because damaging it _is_ going to be necessary. Just from the look of it, it's not coming off in one piece. It looks like... probably three separate pieces, and you already removed one. I assumed there was one over the mouth?"

He's sharp, Slade will give him that. Maybe technically minded, or maybe just observant overall.

"Managed to get that piece off, but I couldn't get the upper or lower parts off without taking his whole skull off."

McNider turns away then, back to a table Slade's set up for him. He drops his bag on it and then starts sorting through the contents, setting aside a variety of drugs (mostly sedatives from what Slade can tell in the dark) and grumbling to himself about them not being necessary at all. He returns with what looks like a specialized pair of pliers, and then turns back to Wayne, bending down to figure out the best place to attach them.

"Lower jaw first. I think it can be removed without dealing with the skull, but the upper part... it's _attached._ I'm going to need to cut it off, or drill it free, maybe. Hard to tell without getting the lower part off first."

About what Slade expected, only McNider's going to do a lot better job than he would have.

"Can I use you as a medical assistant, if you're going to just stand around?" McNider asks, slipping the edge of the pliers under part of the muzzle. "I need you to hold his head still. Top of his skull and his jaw, if you'd please. I don't want the head moving while I'm trying to pop the pin holding the two parts together."

McNider doesn't ask about the fact that the corpse has been covered up to hide his identity. Probably, he can imagine a lot of reasons why privacy is important, a lot of reasons why Slade would want to keep it hidden. Maybe he just respects Slade's right to privacy?

Possible, but doubtful.

He holds Wayne's head in place, well aware that any damage will simply be repaired when Wayne warms up, and watches as McNider slips the pliers into a crack in the muzzle, working towards something Slade can't see.

There's a _click,_ and then McNider withdraws them with a small metal peg clasped between them.

"Other side should come out easily."

Slade releases Wayne's head, and McNider gets to work on removing the lower half the muzzle. It's not easy to do—the teeth on the side are tightly interlocked—but after some precise wiggling, part of it starts to swing off. A second pin is removed—Slade doesn't even have to hold anything—and then the entire lower half comes off.

Wayne's face is a mess, covered in dried blood and caked on grime. There's are two wounds on either side of his chin where the metal's dug in, and one on each side right at the corner of his jaw. Slade almost asks McNider if he thinks they'll scar, and then catches himself.

For one, they're definitely going to scar: the damage is deep enough that he doubts even a Talon's healing is going to fix them, especially not with how long they've been there. For another, as far as McNider's concerned, they're never going to heal at all.

"That's the easy part," McNider says as he sets the piece aside. "To make a very long and very technical explanation short, I'm confident they've surgically attached the upper half to his face, right about here." He taps just in front of Wayne's ear to demonstrate. "Depending on how they did that, my process will change, but there's no way to remove it without doing some damage. Are you sure you want to do this?"

He looks to Slade for confirmation, and Slade hesitates. Maybe he should just leave it on. Maybe it should be done in steps. But looking at it...

Slade wants it off. He doesn't want Wayne with such a painful and obvious reminder of what happened to him, the teeth constantly scraping at his cheeks as he moves. Doesn't want the weight, doesn't want him to brush it accidentally.

He wants it _gone._

"Do it. Try and minimize damage, if you can."

"Any other criteria?"

How transparent can he be?

"No damage to the brain, if you will. There's a decent chance they might want to analyze it after the funeral."

Complete horseshit, and he gets the impression McNider doesn't actually believe him, but he doesn't contest it. Slade's paying, so it's probably best for him that he doesn't.

Never piss off a client, after all.

Getting the lower half of the muzzle off was relatively easy for McNider, but getting the upper half off is nothing of the sort. He spends almost a half hour just inspecting how it all fits together, trying to pull the skin away to investigate the places where it makes contact with the flesh, and then inspecting his tools. He doesn't even start _doing_ anything until almost ten minutes after Slade's wandered away to take a seat, bored just from watching him.

McNider is nothing if not methodical, his methods deeply at odds with how Slade would be doing things. That's more or less the reason he's there: Slade's sure he could do the same job much faster, but he'd do a great deal more damage in the process, causing extra strain on Wayne's system and possible even leaving things behind. McNider will, he's confident, get them all, and when the electric _whirr_ of his instruments starts up, Slade opts to plan for his next steps.

McNider's been actually working maybe fifteen minutes when the noise all stops, and he turns towards Slade with an inscrutable look on his face.

"Could you come over here, please?"

Slade just assumes he needs help holding something, but when he gets there he's pretty sure he's misjudged the situation. There's a metal peg resting beside Wayne's head, and part of the upper half of the muzzle's been pulled away. It's a similar situation to that of the lower half: lots of dried blood, scrapes, and what looks like a thick ridge of scar tissue where the top of the muzzle used to rub into his skin. There's nothing obviously that needs his help, though, and McNider's already pulled down the surgical mask he was wearing, so he simply raises an eyebrow and assumes the man can see him despite the darkness.

He does, apparently.

"I've allowed you to be cagey about the details because I didn't think they matter, but since it's become apparent you lied to me, I'm going to need them now."

Crap.

It is, without making any actual threats, undeniably a threat. A _tell me or else._ The problem is that Slade doesn't have the _slightest_ fucking clue what's set him off. He's found something, maybe, and his eye sweeps across the peg and what he can now see of the muzzle for some kind of sign he's missed. An owl carved on the inside? An owl-themed brand on Wayne's skin?

Nothing. Or at least nothing he can see. McNider's night vision is clearly significantly better than his own, considering the conditions he's working under.

And McNider is still staring pointedly at him, waiting for an explanation that Slade isn't sure he wants to give. How does he address it? How does he counter the question?

The situation is dangerous. Not in the sense that he thinks McNider might stab him (frankly, even with his improved vision he's still only human and Slade could turn him into a smear with only the tiniest bit of effort), but in the sense that he could _very_ easily go tell the wrong person about it. He could ask questions. It could get around.

Slade needs to be very, very careful.

"I'm going to need more information on what you want to know," Slade says, fishing for information and doing a poor job on not making it blatant. McNider not only knows he's lying, but he knows that _Slade_ knows he's lying. He has the upper hand, and Slade's struggling to account for the sudden shift.

"No, I don't think you do," McNider says, an edge to his tone. "I think you need to explain _the truth_ to me right here and now."

McNider has him, whether he realizes it or not. The stakes are too high, the risks too great. The Court knows he has Wayne, but that's it. They don't know anything else, don't know he's working with the Bats, or even that he's still in Gotham. They sure as hell don't know that Slade's in the process of rehabilitating their Talon, removing the muzzle that they put so much effort into designing and installing.

For all they know, their _masterpiece_ is lying dead in a grave, waiting for Slade to ransom him back to the Court.

But this risk—that the surgeon would figure it out—is part of the reason he picked McNider at all. He believes in law and order, and fighting the good fight. He's only working with Slade because he needs the money to keep helping the people he knows, and because Slade's probably the lesser of two evils in his eyes.

So he takes a chance.

"What do you know about the Court of Owls?"

McNider scrunches up his face, baffled beyond reason.

"I'm not from Gotham. You mean the... children's story? The boogieman?"

"Well, they're real," Slade says, not about to pretend like they aren't. "They're an organized group that puppets Gotham around as they please. Talons are their servants, and he was one of them. Forcible conversion." He taps the table Wayne's on. "I'm putting him back together."

McNider clearly knows absolutely nothing about Talons, and Slade doubts he even knows the rhyme. Even so, Slade _is_ expecting the clarification to answer McNider's questions.

But it doesn't.

"I said I wanted the full story."

"That _is_ the full story. He's a Talon. "

"That's _not_ the full story, and if you don't tell me, I'm going to have to start asking questions, and I know you'd prefer to avoid that."

So much for professionalism. Slade is at a loss, struggling to figure out what detail McNider's caught onto. The fact that it's Bruce Wayne under the sheet? That the Court is after them? That—

Oh _fuck,_ the _goddamn drill._

Slade drags his hand down his face.

"He started healing, didn't he?" It's not really a question, and McNider doesn't treat it like one. He looks downright furious, and Slade lets out a groan. Everything is suddenly so much more complicated, and explaining it...

Well, that much more so.

"Yes, he started _healing._ He's supposed to be a _corpse._ If I knew he was alive—"

"He's not alive," Slade interrupts before it can go any farther. "He's... undead. They killed him and brought him back. Heat makes him heal, so my plan was to finish the surgery and then let him heal up. Whatever damage you do will just get undone, so the priority has to be removing the muzzle."

 _"You,"_ McNider starts, with a surprising amount of venom in his voice, "should have told me that from the start. If I had known what I was looking at going into this, I'd have treated it completely differently. I could have talked to him—"

"He can't talk. He's brainwashed, doc. Doesn't even know his own name."

"It's the _idea_ of it. I could have walked him through what was going to be done—"

"You couldn't do that either. Listen to me when I say that this was the quickest, easiest way to get this done. He has been through a _lot,_ he can't be trusted around anyone who can't fight him if necessary, and he doesn't remember things you tell him. Meeting a stranger who was going to tell him about how he was about to rip open his face would just upset him more. Better to just wake up with it gone and not have to think about having _surgery_ after what happened during his last few procedures."

McNider looks ready to fight him, but something holds him back, and Slade can't even guess at what. He stares at Slade, and then turns, staring at his half-complete work and the man hidden under the sheets.

"...What are you doing when this is done?" He finally asks.

"Taking him back to safety. Warming him up so he'll heal."

"Localized heat will heal parts without waking him up. If you keep the rest of him cold, but heat the injury... If I had known, I'd have brought equipment for that. What about after that?"

What the hell does he want, a detailed plan? Slade hasn't thought that far ahead, save in areas that he is most definitely _not_ going to share. McNider doesn't need to know about his plans to disassemble the court.

"Take him home. Work through things as they come up."

"You need an expert. Someone with experience."

"Experience in _the undead?"_ Slade counters. "There's no one who has any experience with something like him. No one. His experience is completely unique."

"There are _related_ things," McNider counters. "Someone with experience in brainwashing cases, or extreme trauma, or..."

He trails off, struggling to come up with another example, and Slade takes the opportunity to push in.

"This isn't something up for discussion. There's no one who has the experience _and_ can be trusted."

"I could—"

"I barely know you. I trusted you with this because, frankly, if you went off asking questions you'd end up putting him at risk. I had to trust that, if I told you, you wouldn't do that. That's it."

McNider stares at him, time seeming to stretch out as he does. He's thinking, clearly. Turning it all over in his head. Considering how much he wants to fight Slade over it.

And apparently he decides that it isn't worth it, turning away to look back towards Wayne.

"I'm still going to need at least an hour. Give some thought to your next steps."

Slade's only _real_ thought as McNider turns away is whether or not the man is going to be a problem he'll have to deal with later.


	29. Chapter 29

In the time it takes for McNider to finish his work, Slade is left with very little to do but think. He doesn't want to think. In fact, if he got his way, he'd just blank his brain and call it a day.

That isn't really an option for him, though. He can't turn off his brain _and_ still stay aware.

And he needs to stay aware. He can't be sure McNider isn't up to something. He can't be certain that Penguin isn't planning to burst in at the least opportune moment to cause trouble. He _doubts_ either of those is actually going to happen, but he didn't get to where he is in life by counting on things _probably_ not happening.

He needs to come up with a plan, but it's difficult to do so. He has no idea how Wayne's recovery will progress with the mask off. Will it be weeks before he can be safely taken care of by Jason? Months? Years? Time seems to stretch out in front of him, the perpetual question of _how long_ seeming to have no possible ending.

A better question is _how long is he willing to endure it?_ It's been a fun vacation, a break from his usual routine, but he knows that soon it's going to wear thin. If Wayne hasn't significantly improved in a month, is he still going to stick around? Two? Three?

A year?

More?

He hasn't truly confined himself to the job, because he can leave at any time, but dumping Wayne on Jason and leaving isn't good either. It'd be poor professionalism, and reflect badly on him if anyone found out.

There's really only one obvious way out: destroying the Court. If he manages to completely obliterate them, down to the man, then Wayne will be much safer to deal with. Jason would be able to handle him, and Slade could leave.

McNider's clearly hoping Slade's going to think about things like _specialized therapists,_ but instead his mind goes to the coordinates, the bases where the Court are currently hiding. One of those will be the headquarters. One of those will have the people he needs to kill.

He decides, then and there, what he'll do. How he'll play it out. He sets Wayne aside, focusing on what _actually_ matters for his job, and finds everything comes to him so much easier.

He can handle that.

"I'm done," McNider calls, snapping Slade out of his planning, and Slade immediately gets up, heading over to inspect.

It's not that there's less damage then he expected; it's that there's no apparent damage at all. The scars he saw before are still there, as is most of the grime, but McNider's cleaned his face up a bit, and there are no obvious signs of the surgery at all. Slade raises an eyebrow questioningly, and McNider reaches down, tapping where the muzzle used to connect.

"Localized heat let it heal cleanly. I'm confident I've removed everything, and I didn't see any other signs of things that would need to be removed."

Slade had wondered about that, but something like detailed x-rays wasn't in the cards for the near future. He'd already done a quick handheld scan himself when he _first_ removed the implant, and he doubts there was anything else significant still sitting in Wayne's skull.

"Payment should be in your account already," Slade says, eager to get Wayne home. "If I end up needing any other surgical help with him, I'll contact you directly."

"In other words, go away," McNider says, and Slade simply grins at him in response.

He's dead right. In other words, _fuck off._ McNider's done his job and been helpful, but he's asking way too many questions, and he's starting to become a problem.

Slade wants him gone, and McNider seems less than enthusiastic about complying.

"I just want to know that he'll be taken care of."

"That isn't your business." He _is_ going to be taken care of, whether by Slade or by Jason, but Slade wants McNider to butt out.

It strikes him as funny that both McNider and Wayne himself are—or were—the same sort of person. The kind who didn't hesitate to stick their nose into things if they thought someone was in danger.

Maybe they'd have been friends.

"This is—"

"This is not your business. Go home. You've been paid, the jobs done. What happens next is entirely up to me, and you're going to need to accept that."

What if he doesn't?

Well, that's why he was picked at all. Slade imagines that the worst case scenario would be McNider investigating Slade himself. He wouldn't go to the police, or anyone else the court might hear back from. No matter how things play out, Wayne stays safe, because McNider will prioritize his safety.

Even if he's never really _met_ him.

Slade calls his bluff. He brushes past McNider, heading over to where Wayne rests, and then scoops him up. McNider's been tidy, so there's very little to clean up. No blood, because Wayne doesn't bleed while frozen. There's the bits of the muzzle, which he intends to bring with him, but he's saved from having to figure out how to juggle them all when McNider collects them, looking serious... and irritated.

"I'll take them to the car for you."

He bundles them up and then snaps on his goggles, and follows Slade out.

Wayne goes in the back seat, completely hidden by the sheets covering him, and McNider hands over the pieces of the muzzle, neatly tied up.

"I'll dispose of the plastic sheeting," he says, extremely serious and in no mood for anything but getting straight to the point. "Call it a professional courtesy."

Slade wouldn't expect anything less. He offers a quick nod, and then heads to the car, leaving McNider to his work.

Even if he means well, Slade knows McNider is going to be _some_ kind of trouble. He doesn't know the shape of it, but he can still see it on the horizon, silhouetted by the sun.

McNider's principles, after all, aren't going to be deterred by anything less than an oath, and Slade is most certainly not the type.


	30. Chapter 30

Slade's impatient by the time Wayne's eyes start to flutter open. He's set up in his bed, the house is warm, and there's juice boxes and blankets waiting for him when he's a bit more coherent. He's not completely sure how the wake up process usually worked with the court, and his experience with it is deeply limited.

Well, no time like the present for making a new routine.

He taps his foot, watching as Wayne ever so slowly comes back to himself. For the first while, he's completely motionless, and Slade swears if he listened he'd be able to hear the sounds of a modem starting up.

Does Wayne normally take so long? The minutes are ticking by, and Wayne's still just sitting there, thawing out bit by bit.

Should he apply heat packs? Offer him juice? It's like he's frozen, only the freeze is purely mental. He should be doing something. Should be moving. Should be... okay, _talking_ is probably a stretch, but Slade isn't ruling it out, either.

He doesn't want to be like Dick, overly hopeful despite everything about the situation indicating it's not going to turn out well. He wants to be _controlled_ and _skeptical_ but it's still hard not to have a bit of hope.

Maybe he's getting too invested. Maybe he's getting too _close._

Not as if he has a lot of options.

"Wayne?" He calls. It's been almost ten minutes since Wayne's eyes started to open, and he hasn't moved _at all_ since that point. It feels like something's actually _wrong,_ which isn't a good sign.

He hasn't even told Jason he's removing the muzzle. It was supposed to be a pleasant surprise, and now he's starting to wonder if it's a mistake. What if there was something in the mask that was important? What if it had circuitry? He can't imagine the Court's brainwashing was sophisticated enough to make it so that he'd only act while the muzzle was on. No, if anything, it feels like the opposite; the Court's brainwashing was crude, wiping out whole chunks of his personality in an attempt to get Wayne under their control.

Wayne doesn't respond, even when Slade tries again, and he leans over, inspecting him. His pupils aren't moving, staring blankly at the ceiling, and the impression that he's somehow _frozen_ only intensifies.

Slade reaches out to touch Wayne—he's trying to assess his body temperature, and just how warm (or not) he is—and that's when everything goes to shit.

Wayne goes from not moving at all to moving too much, too fast. He's little more than a blur, even to Slade's enhanced senses, and all he can _really_ process is every part of his body screaming _danger_ over and over again like an air raid siren's been set off.

Wayne is trying to kill him. He knows this, but he doesn't know _why,_ and he can't even speculate because every fiber of his being is focused on keeping himself alive.

He blocks a swing, but the blow's enough that Slade can feel it in his bones. It would have taken his head off.

The sense of _danger_ only intensifies, and when Wayne tries to grapple him, Slade rolls with it, tossing Wayne over his shoulder to get free.

He needs to stop him. He needs to restrain him and... and what? He doesn't get why he's gone mad. He doesn't understand the mechanisms at play. He doesn't have time to feel it out, trying to work out what specifically has caused Wayne to go berserk.

All he can do is take advantage of how mindless Wayne's attacks are. Slade doesn't have to think about what Wayne might do, because the answer is always _the most obvious thing._ If Slade has his arms up, Wayne goes for his legs. If he ducks down, Wayne's going to try and knee him in the face. There are elements of Batman's fighting style woven in, but many of them are much more direct than Batman would have done in the past.

So it's easier than it should be to bring him down. Whatever he does will heal, so he feels no guilt at all when he breaks Wayne's wrist to stop him from breaking Slade's shoulder, and even less when he dances behind Wayne, wrapping his arm around Wayne's neck and pulling him into a too-tight hold.

It should hurt a human. He should start passing out. But Wayne shows no sign of stopping even as Slade applies more and more pressure, trying to cut off his oxygen.

Wait, does he even need to breathe?

The struggle becomes more desperate. Wayne is hitting him from every angle he can reach, making furious, desperate noises.

Fighting him isn't a battle he can win. Not without causing severe damage to one of them.

"Wayne!" He barks, trying desperately to keep Wayne in place. "Wayne, stop it!"

He's going to get free. He's going to get free, and then he's going to be loose, and Slade has no idea where he'll go or what he'll do. It's an unknown situation, completely beyond his expectations.

Even if he doesn't know—even if he can't even _guess_ —he has to. He has to decide what set Wayne off and act accordingly. Is it being put under, or if it that the muzzle was removed?

It has to be the muzzle. He's been under before without such a strong reaction. The muzzle _must_ be setting him off, and if it isn't...

Then Slade doesn't know what he'll do.

He doesn't want to put the mask back on. He'd take anything over that, because putting the mask back on feels like giving up. But he doesn't have much option, and he knows he's going to have to work around it.

He risks it, reaching up to wrap his hand around the lower half of Wayne's face. He's risking getting bitten—really, it feels almost inevitable with his hand so close to Wayne's mouth—but he tries to seal it over Wayne's mouth and nose the way the mask did, trying to mimic it.

The effect is nearly instantaneous, but not complete. Wayne is immediately more subdued, less out of his mind, but he's still clearly agitated, still struggling against Slade's grip. It helps, but it still isn't enough, and the struggling only seems to be increasing. Slade's injuries are starting to build, and while Wayne hasn't done any _serious_ damage, restricted as he is, it's only a matter of time.

How long before he gets a lucky blow and breaks something? How long before he gets away, out of the house and free to do whatever he damn well pleases?

"Wayne, I need you to stop."

He's sure he sounds desperate. He _is_ desperate. If Wayne doesn't stop fighting him, well, he's already out of options.

He just needs him to stop.

"Bruce, for the love of god, _stop."_

Something makes him stop. Wayne goes still in his arms, Slade's hand still pressed over his face to mimic a mask, his other arm pinned across his chest and arm to hold him in place as much as possible.

Something.

His name?

"Bruce," Slade says, just to see the reaction, and there _is_ a difference. Wayne—no, _Bruce_ —is reacting to it.

To his name.

He _remembers_ his name and he recognizes it and hearing his name has _calmed him down,_ and somehow that ends up feeling more exciting than the fact that the muzzle is actually, finally off.

Because it means he remembers.


	31. Chapter 31

Slade doesn't have the option of letting go. The first time he tries, there's a near immediate struggle, and Slade's forced to clamp back down, holding Wayne—no, _Bruce_ —still until he calms back down.

It takes slow and careful trial and error to confirm his suspicion: without something pressed to the lower half of his face, Bruce becomes agitated. He _needs_ something there.

Slade makes do with what he has. He tears off a bit of the bedsheets, tying it around the lower half of Bruce's face as slowly and methodically as he can manage. He knows if he goes too fast he'll be in trouble, so there's no other option than to go slow as possible. By the time he finds the correct level of tightness it's been almost thirty minutes, and even that clearly isn't enough. Bruce is still _antsy,_ he's just not so antsy that he can't be trusted.

Slade needs to deal with that first.

He has a few impromptu masks down in the basement (he takes Bruce down with him, unwilling to risk leaving him alone while he's so agitated), and he's able to remove the top half of one to easily make what he has in mind. He wants to get a better mold of Wayne— _Bruce's_ —face, but one intended to fit him is all he has on hand.

It's simple, black, and largely featureless, but it apparently satisfies Bruce's needs, because once it's pressed to his face (probably crushing his nose in the process), a bit more tension eases out of his shoulders.

He still wants the muzzle back, but the mask will do.

Freed up, Slade turns his attention to making something a bit more permanent. He doesn't want to risk removing the temporary mask to measure Bruce's face, but he doesn't need to: the muzzle gives him the exact size and shape of Bruce's face, and it's easy to make something that will fit snugly (but not uncomfortably) with only slight modifications. It takes the better part of two hours, but working with the same materials that make up his own armor feels deeply familiar to him.

Getting _that_ on is another task, but it goes easier than Slade expected. Maybe Bruce is just worn out. Maybe he's had his muzzle changed before.

The new muzzle—he wants to call it something else, but that's what it is—is leagues above his old one. It's a mixture of hard and soft plastics, molded to Bruce's face so that it fits snuggly without cutting in. It covers the majority of the same area, but where the old one was all hard edges, the new one is more rounded, less imposing. It's also a great deal less over-designed, intended to disguise Bruce's features rather than replacing them with new ones.

It's difficult to gauge if Bruce likes it more or less. He's subdued, his emotional state an unreadable disaster, but he is willing to leave the bedroom when Slade invites him out. He even joins Slade at the table for a tense, awkward dinner, and it's only once that's over that Slade feels confident enough to try.

"Bruce."

He doesn't snap to attention, but his attention is there. It drifts up slowly, his eyes wandering up until they settle on Slade. Unfocused. Dim.

But still _there._ He's paying attention to Slade because his name was called. Whether because Jason calls him that or because he remembers, he knows his own name.

Good. It's a good, solid step.

"Jason will be surprised when he sees you," he says, wondering not for the first time how much Bruce is really taking in. "I didn't tell him I was removing the muzzle. Figured it would be a nice—"

His phone starts to ring, interrupting him, and he snatches it up, answering automatically without any sort of second thought.

"Are you _out of your goddamn mind?"_ Jason yells directly into his ear, and Slade jerks the phone back, wincing.

So he's heard, apparently.

"It was important for his well being to have it removed," Slade says, not bothering to play dumb. Jason's obviously heard, although how...

Oh, wait.

"McNider told you, didn't he?"

"Of course he fucking told me. He thought you were up to something and wanted to make sure we knew. He had no idea _what_ you were up to... for fuck's sake, Slade, things could have gone a lot worse than him coming to us."

It could have. They could have told someone and let it get back to the Court... but even then...

"No," he says after a moment. "I took precautions. He didn't know where the safehouse was. The Court already knows I have him, and what they _need_ is the location. McNider didn't get that."

"He could have identified Bruce—"

"I vetted McNider beforehand. I specifically went for someone with _morals_ for this exact reason. If I had gone to someone else, they might have sold that information to the court, but McNider's worst case scenario was this... telling other vigilantes. Telling _you_. There is no way that this plays out which involves the Court getting more information then they already have."

No matter how things worked out, Slade's confident that he's right. This was the best case scenario. This was the only way to do it without putting Bruce at more risk.

"I'm not an idiot," Slade adds after a moment, because he thinks it deserves saying.

"I didn't—"

"Jason, you've forgotten that his is what I do for a living. I'm a professional. I've got a dozen plates spinning at once, and I let you know about them when they're relevant to you. You didn't need to know about hiring McNider, I don't need to run all this past you, and if this is something that you're going to have an issue with..."

He doesn't need to make the threat. Jason can't _fire_ him, not with how deep in he is.

"You do, actually."

Slade's brain seems to skip. Jason's voice is so _sure_ that he suddenly finds himself rethinking. Did he miss something? Did he overlook something?

"You may be a professional, but I'm your boss. I'm the one paying you, so is it not _standard_ that you answer to me? That you give me progress reports and updates?"

Jason already knows the answer. He's not stupid enough to ask a question like that he doesn't _already_ know the answer to, and Slade finds himself chewing his own tongue as he tries to come up with an answer.

Fuck, Jason's got him, doesn't he?

"Fine," Slade grunts. "What do you want to know?"

"What are your plans for the _immediate_ future?"

It's as good a question as any, Slade supposes.

"Patch the hole in Bruce's room. He came up through the floor and caused a lot of damage that needs to be repaired. Realistically, it doesn't seem like I have a chance in hell of keeping him in his room if he wants to get out, but I can at least keep anyone else out. Simple sheet metal over the hole, fixed in place. Ugly, but it'll do."

Jason makes a little wheeze noise. He didn't even _know_ about the hole, but he's smart enough to guess why it's there.

"You called him Bruce."

Or maybe Slade's just completely misjudged the reason for the wheeze.

"He didn't take the removal of the muzzle well when he woke up," Slade says, trying to be matter of fact about it. "He lashed out, and I was only able to calm him down by re-covering his mouth... and saying his name. He recognizes Bruce on some level, but doesn't seem to have the same positive association with Wayne." Because Wayne was so often used for _business,_ maybe? Bruce to friends and family, Wayne to associates.

"Is he calm _now?"_

Alright, at the very least he's goddamn sure why he's asking _that._

"He's calm. Sitting at the table right now, we just had dinner." Or _he_ just had dinner. He's not willing to try eating just yet.

"So you're calming him down, fixing the hole... anything else?"

Slade weighs his options, but in the end his professionalism wins out. He _should_ be giving reports. He just hasn't been, because...

Well, because he's dealing with the bats.

"I've got some leads on the Court I'm following up on. The more information I have on what they did to him, the easier time we'll have putting him back together."

 _"Some_ leads?"

Mm. He should have seen that one coming.

"I have eight sets of coordinates to Owl bases, and I'm going to figure out the most likely main base and pay them a visit."

"That's more than a _lead,_ Slade!" Jason chokes. "That's a whole _answer."_

"It's a lead," Slade corrects. "There's no telling the coordinates are correct, and none of them stick out as an obvious _home base._ Some might be abandoned. And most importantly, I'm probably only going to get one shot. Unless they're completely incompetent, they're going to know I showed up and figure out what I'm doing. They'll abandon their old bases if they know I've got them in my sights."

"So we coordinate. We hit multiple locations at once."

"And then they know for sure that I'm working for you. Right now, I strongly doubt they realize who I'm working for, or how heavily we're involved. More importantly, someone needs to stay and keep an eye on Bruce."

"So you—"

"Think about that for a moment, Jason, before you speak."

Jason's clearly about to propose _Slade_ stay on babysitting duty while the Court's hit, but it simply doesn't make sense. Slade's a better fighter, hands down, and the Court is dangerous. A single Bat can't possibly risk going in alone. It just isn't feasible.

"I've got repairs to do tomorrow morning, but you should come by tomorrow afternoon to watch him. I'll go out, do as much as I can, and fall back as necessary. I'll be safe. I'll be careful. Everyone gets to go home at the end of the night."

Well, everyone who matters.

Jason's silent on the other side, probably chewing on his lip or something while he tries to find a way to argue with Slade. He apparently comes up empty handed, because after a while he simply relents, agreeing to Slade's plan.

There's no reason not to, after all. Slade's good at what he does, and very soon _what he does_ will be taking down the Court of Owls.


	32. Chapter 32

Slade doesn't bother fixing the hole that night. It's late, he's tired, and it clearly doesn't bother Bruce anyway. The only _concern_ is that Bruce will use it as an excuse to slip out, but Slade's made his peace with that already. Inevitably, if Bruce wants to leave, Slade's going to have a hell of a time stopping him.

It turns out not to matter in the morning, either: Bruce is waiting patiently in his room when Slade goes to get him, and it's more or less business as usual, as if he _wasn't_ just extremely traumatized by the removal of his muzzle. The new mask has the same basic profile, but overall is a lot less limiting. Slade has the option to wash under it if needed. It's probably more comfortable.

Or at least it's _supposed_ to be less limiting. Slade's halfway through breakfast when he realizes Bruce is staring expectantly, but when he gets up to get a juice box he realizes his mistake. The mask is just one piece: it doesn't leave the mouth open like the partially disassembled muzzle did.

Which means Bruce can't drink anything with it on, and _removing_ it is a problem as well. Effectively, all the work Slade put into making the new mask is pointless, and he has no choice but to start over.

Rather than patching the hole in Bruce's room, he instead has to set Bruce up in the living room and descend down into his workshop, dealing with the matter of the mask first.

The first mask was something he whipped together in a few minutes. Similarly, the second was easy.

The third takes hours. Slade has to run through multiple prototypes before he finds one that will work, and then of course the design is more complicated so he has to spend extra time actually _making_ the fucking thing. The design he comes up with looks simple enough, with a small square over Bruce's mouth to allow access, but the mechanism connecting the square and the cover for it together is more complicated. He doesn't want to pinch Bruce or injure him in any way, and getting it set up in such a way that there's no risk to Bruce is _really fucking hard._

By the time he's finished, Slade is _done_ with the whole thing. He still has to swap Bruce's mask over, and he doesn't give that nearly as much time and attention as he should. He just pulls the old one off, shoving the new one on and fixing it in place before Bruce can start to properly panic over it.

A juicebox helps smooth out any panic that might have remained.

There's even _more_ work to do after that—he has to install a metal sheet under Bruce's bed, which is more irritating work that's mindless gruntwork—to the point that Jason's arrival feels like a damned blessing.

Jason, of course, brushes right past Slade to go check on Bruce, who's back to watching Jeopardy on the couch. He doesn't look up when Jason approaches him, and doesn't give him so much as a glance when Jason actually sits beside him, inspecting the new mask.

"...I should have realized when you said you _re-covered his mouth_ ," he says after a moment.

"That's mark three," Slade grunts. "I put a temporary one on to keep him docile while I made a better one, but then I realized there was no mouth access on the one I'd made. Had to put this together this morning so that he could have his juice."

"Does he _need_ it?"

Jason's desire is obvious. He wants the mask off. He wants Bruce to be able to live his life without it.

But it just isn't realistic.

"Right now he does. Maybe we'll be able to work up to having it off, but right now you can't take it off."

Jason looks genuinely wounded by the very idea, and Slade has to fight not to roll his eyes. _Jason_ isn't the one who got mauled by Bruce while it was off, after all. He hasn't seen how bad Bruce can get.

"We should move him to somewhere better," Jason says abruptly. "The manor's gone, obviously, but there are other places—"

"There's no point in moving him until the Court's dealt with," Slade interrupts. "Getting him established just to have to move him because the Court sniffed him out is a terrible idea."

"Then at least make him more comfortable..."

Jason's desires are as plain as day. He wants to help Bruce, but doesn't know how. He offers no clear suggestions, nothing he can actually do. He wants to help, but he's _lost._

Slade throws him a bone.

"I just finished repairing the hole he made in the floor of his room. Maybe you should get him some rugs or something to cover it up? He prefers things warm, and I doubt a bit metal plate is going to help."

Jason's happy for something to do.

"Should I go get that now? I was thinking... maybe hot chocolate? I know he's mostly had juice, but I figure it's warm...?"

He looks to Slade for insight, only further hammering home how unsure Jason is of the situation. He hasn't had as much time with him.

"I wanted to leave soon. Get Tim or Barbara to stop by." He's not having Dick fucking do it, that's for sure. He is _not_ in a position where he's alright with keeping the two of them apart if Bruce tries to jump him. Tim and Barbara, on the other hand, feel comparatively safe. Or at least mostly so. "In street clothes, to be clear."

"Obviously," Jason mutters, looking as irritated as he sounds. "I'm not going to have them wandering up to the front door in their costumes."

Slade makes sure he's gone before they arrive. He doesn't want to get caught up in another long winded conversation; he has things to do, and only so many hours in the day.


	33. Chapter 33

There is nothing distinct or important about any of the eight addresses Slade has. He checks each out remotely, not wanting to tip his hand by showing up early. A lot of the buildings are old. Some of them are office spaces, while others are different things. There's a lot of variety, and the only real commonality is that if he snoops around enough, there tends to be a decorative owl (often a statue) located in the building. He spots them in street level photos, or discreetly hidden away in logos. He knows he has the right list, but he doesn't know _which_ is most important.

Assuming their headquarters is even _on_ the list. If he were in charge, it wouldn't be. He'd make sure that the address isn't referenced _anywhere,_ in any of the other buildings.

The whole raid might be a bust, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to try. 

In the end he goes for simple: the longer he spends trying to figure out which one is correct, the less time he has. He counts on what he knows of the Court, their tendency towards the theatric, the significance of the organizations _age,_ and digs through for the date each building was put up.

One of them is from the late 1800s, and has a rather extensive _underground storage_ area. He's not sure it would be big enough for the Court's entire operation, but what he can find isn't guaranteed to be all there is.

He goes in late at night, when the building should be empty. He has his suit, and his gear, and no small amount of confidence to see his way through.

He expects to fight a lot of Talons, and he gets exactly what he expects.

He doesn't run into them at first, of course. Entering the building is easy. Getting down to the basement similarly so. Only the basement isn't as large as it should be, and he's able to find a secret door relatively easily, and from there...

Well, there's no question what he's there for, and the Court stops pretending he might have broken in for any other reason.

They send their people at him, and when Slade takes them out (in decidedly _non_ Bat-friendly ways), they start sending Talons.

There are a _lot_ of Talons. The sheer number of them strongly suggests that he's found somewhere that they get _stored,_ because he can't imagine any random base is going to have so many.

It gives him hope. If he's chosen right, things will be easier. If he can take apart the Court's headquarters, he can start moving forward. If he can stop them completely, the end will be in sight.

Until the Court is done with, he's not going to be able to leave Gotham.

He butchers his way through the first wave of Talons, enjoying the relative challenge compared to human opponents. He's used to killing anyone in front of him with minimal effort, and he has to at least _try_ with the Talons.

And try.

And try again.

There's a second wave and then a third. Someone gets a lucky hit in. A fourth wave comes.

The Talons seem endless. There's no longer any question if he's found a storage facility, because Slade's barely _gone_ anywhere, constantly having to deal with more and more Talons. Everything is happening so fast, a blur of blades and bullets, that he doesn't get time to think.

He doesn't have a moment to stop and consider the implications of a single base having so _many_ Talons.

That it might be _just_ a storage facility.

He's cutting them down as fast as they're coming, doing so much _damage,_ but the things keep healing, requiring more and more damage to keep them down. Things keep getting worse.

There continues to be more.

He needs to back up, he realizes. He needs to fall back because no matter how good he is, the Talons are _endless_ , and he is in serious danger of getting overwhelmed.

Of falling beneath a _tide._

He falls, of course.

It's inevitable. There's just so many, and he's only one person. No matter how good he is, he can't keep up, and eventually there's one lucky hit too many and he goes down.

He gets back up, and then he's dragged back down again. He can't keep up. He can't deal with how _many_ there are.

Someone drugs him. He's not even sure when it happens: something in the air he missed? Or was one of the attacks actually an injection? His body's running overtime to keep up with the damage, trying to burn through the injection as fast as possible. His perception of things becomes a glorified smear, everything blurring into the next.

They must be continually re-dosing him to keep him under, but it's enough. He's constantly swimming his way back to awareness, struggling to try and get himself back to his feet.

There are Talon's holding him down. Other people arrive. He can hear them talking, but he can't understand what they're saying.

Someone grabs his chin, tilting it up, and Slade stares blearily. A man. He's looking at a man, not a Talon, but...

But even registering that much is so fucking _hard._

"Take him for processing," someone says. He thinks it's the man in front of him, but it's all he can do to keep his eye open. They have to be upping the dosage on his sedatives—they'd probably kill damn near anyone else—because things are getting harder and harder to understand.

The man drops his head, and Slade loses his fight to stay awake.


	34. Chapter 34

Slade wakes, but his vision—and brain—are still swimming. It's immediately obvious to him that he's been sedated, but after a few moments of trying to fight past it, he upgrades his assessment: he's been poisoned. Any sedative wouldn't leave him feeling so awful. Whatever they're putting into him, it's heavy duty.

It's a testament to just _how_ heavy duty it is that it takes him the better part of a minute to even assess his situation. He's in a small room—mostly metal—that he imagines isn't far off a particularly secure jail cell. There's a small cot sticking out of the wall, but he's lying on the floor in the middle. There's a little drain in the middle, and the floor is ever so slightly slanted towards it, which doesn't bode well at all.

It means they're used to spraying down the room to wash away fluids. Fluids that almost certainly include blood.

Probably his blood.

There's something thick and metal wrapped around his neck, which he explores with his hands over several agonizing minutes. A collar, and probably the source of whatever they're poisoning him with. It can't be holding _that_ much, but so close to his brain there's probably less need... or maybe not. Thinking is difficult, his head swimming.

He wants to go back to sleep, but he knows he can't let himself. He _has_ to make himself get up, and yet even with all his focus and willpower he only barely manages to sit up.

He wants to vomit just from that.

He has difficulty keeping track of time, but he figures it's long enough for the situation really to settle into his head that the door opens. The woman that comes inside looks stunningly normal—carefully kept brown hair, a lab coat, and a clipboard in hand—the kind of doctor that could be found in any hospital in the country.

Except, of course, for the mask. Where her face should be is the smooth white of an owl mask, almost featureless except for the eyes and a slight denting that implies a nose.

Or a beak, he guesses.

"There was some debate about if you'd be willing to comply with our requests without further conditioning," she says. Slade is hearing her, but he has a hard time following what's actually being said. "We would like the location of Talon 397, if you please."

397\. In his brain, that means something. 397. 397 is _Bruce,_ he registers. They want to know where Bruce is. That feels important. Significant. Yet it still takes what feels like five minutes for him to manage to slur out a response.

"Bruce."

He can't see her face, but her body language makes her annoyance clear.

"Talon 397's location, please."

"His name is Bruce."

He doesn't think it comes out clearly—more like _hish name broosh_ —but she obviously understands anyway.

"Uncooperative, then. That's fine. The Court has plenty of experience ensuring compliance."

She turns away, and the door swings shut behind her.

Slade feels a burst of frustration for how sluggish his brain feels. He's missing major, important details. How did the door open? What was beyond the hall? What was she even _saying?_ Threats, from the tone, but the words are already gone, vanished from his struggling brain.

He loses time. Someone comes back in to find him drooling onto the floor. He doesn't have it in him to offer any resistance, but they say something and then make adjustments on the thick, uncomfortable collar around his neck. His brain is still swimming, but after a while it seems to ease.

Reality sharpens. He starts to recognize the passing of time. When the door opens again, the doctor returning, he registers a hallway outside.

"How are you feeling?"

He manages a 'fuck you' as he forces himself to sit upright, rather than lying on the floor. Apparently she's pleased with that, because she makes a noise, clicks her pen, and scribbles a note.

"The drugs effect were a bit _too_ potent previously, but I think this dosage is about right. Of course, if we can find something to disable your augmentations, that would be ideal..."

They want to turn off his regeneration entirely. To replace it with their own: with a thing where he's _dead_ and simply repairs the damage to his walking corpse.

Fantastic.

"You aren't going to break me," he warns. He does his best to sound threatening and absolutely doesn't. "I've been through worse. Seen worse."

"We've broken stronger, dear. As I said before, the Court is very persuasive."

She leaves, and he begins to regret not being so heavily drugged. Before, hours passed in the blink of an eye. Time had no meaning. But now he's trapped in what he imagines is a very human situation: his powers, working overtime to keep him from dropping dead, aren't working as they should. He can't measure time the way he used to. It seems to stretch on and on, leaving him with no clear sense of how long he's been there. Hours? Days? When they feed him, it's a bowl on the floor with some kind of grainy liquid. There are probably drugs in it, but Slade eats it anyway.

They don't need to drug his food, after all: if they really want to, and he fights it, they'll just drug him directly. He might as well get what food he can.

He tries to focus on the cell. There's very little to it, which makes it difficult. No windows. One door. He estimates sizes of everything to keep his mind occupied. He tries to sleep, but ends up roused by waves of pain. He isn't sure if they're from the drugs they've put in him, or if they're actually doing something with the collar to wake him, but the lack of sleep wears on him.

He knows how it's going to work. They'll keep him up until he's running on fumes. They'll leave him alone so often, alone in his own head, until his mind starts running in circles. They'll give him food at odd hours to keep him from figuring out the time of day.

They will take everything he knows about the world around him away from him, and then they'll start taking everything he knows about _himself_ away from them.

It isn't torture the way people think of it. They're not going to pin him down and stab him over and over until he decides the Court is good. They are going to take his _mind_ apart, until he breaks, and then they'll offer him an alternative. A way out.

Slade wants to say he's stronger than that. He probably is. He has _excellent_ mental fortitude.

But the human brain isn't built for that kind of long term stress, and with the timeline of Bruce's own experience, he knows they're willing to spend _years_ on him.

A day is fine. A week, sure. A month? A year?

If he's still there, in the same room, two years from then, is there even going to be anything left of him?

He wants to say yes, but he knows the answer is no.


	35. Chapter 35

Slade slowly becomes deeply familiar with every part of the room. He has no sense of time, no scale for how long he's been there. He tries to count the hours and fails, distracted by occasional waves of pain from his neck. His regeneration is keeping him alive, but it's still painful, and sometimes, depending on how much he moves he finds himself overwhelmed by it.

He studies the features of the cell. The drain is already cracked, as if someone else tried to haul it up, but it appears to be heavily built into the floor itself, preventing him from lifting it with his dampened strength. It leads only to a narrow pipe that appears to run almost straight down until he can no longer see, leaving it with little possible utility to him.

Calling the cot a _cot_ is giving it too much credit. It's a single piece of metal jutting out from the wall, with the thinnest blanket placed on it. The things so threadbare that Slade can see through it without even holding it up to the light, which he suspects is the point. He wonders if he's expected to be thankful that they gave him that at all.

It's the walls, though, which bring him the most despair. They're solid pour concrete, well worn with plenty of dings and nicks. In places, though, there are more than just scratches: there are actual claw marks, animalistic gouges like a wild beast was placed in the room and left to go wild.

He knows they didn't. He knows the marks are probably from a past convert, a Talon who had slowly lost his mind. How long does he have before they start making physical changes? How long before they move past _intense isolation?_

He abandons the bed, lying on his back on the floor and staring at the ceiling. He tries to think positively, to be appreciative of what he has. He's still aware and awake. He still has at least part of his suit.

That is, as far as he can tell, it. That's the sum total of everything he has, and even those feel like a knife to the back.

It feels painfully obvious to him that he only has his suit because sometime soon they're going to take it away. They're going to leave him with just his mind, and then they're going to take _that_ away.

He concocts a feeble, desperate plan: the stupid thing about giving him the cot is that there's a space under it. If he crams himself under it, can they see? Is there a camera down there?

Maybe if he hides—if he crams himself into the tiny space as tight as he can go—they'll have to do something. Send someone in to get him out, maybe.

Anything at all would be a blessing, a break from the monotony, the constant _waiting._ He turns to the dimly lit space and hesitates, his eyes searching the darkness.

There's something there.

He reaches out to the shadow under the bed, fingers trailing over cuts in the wall, and then he moves a bit closer, leaning in and letting his eyes adjust.

Someone has scratched the wall under the bed. Some of the scratches are scratches of desperation, the same claw marks he's seen elsewhere in the cell. Others, however, are more precise. They're small and exact, tiny cuts into a wall that isn't easily cut.

The left is a tally, and seeing it fills him with dread. The numbers start in the upper left, four neat little cuts before a cross cuts across them.

Five.

And then there's five more.

And five more after that.

Slade trails his fingers across them, counting them all out.

He reaches a hundred and five before he starts losing track because the person carving them into the wall is losing track. There are incomplete tallies. There are ones that appear to have been crossed over twice. The lines become more and erratic, and in the end the entire lower half is all but obliterated, multiple thick gouges scoring the wall, obscuring the rest of the tally.

The person recording lost count. The person recording tried so hard to keep track of how long they'd been there in the only way they could, and yet they still lost it.

But it's not until Slade turns his head, letting himself see more of the right side that he really understands how bad things are going to get.

It has been hard for him to deny the obvious truth: that the room he's in was once Bruce's. The signs are there, the hints, and more than that, a simple use of Occam's razor. The Court wouldn't put so much effort into people if they weren't worth it, and how many people are worth what he and Bruce are?

But beside the tallies—more than two hundred of them and all but impossible to count—are names.

 **RICHARD** is the top, written in thin, precise lines. When did he write that? If the neatness is any indication, probably midway through the tally. The names are gouged a bit deeper, which Slade suspects means a lack of control, but it's hard to say.

 **JASON** is next, followed closely by **TIMOTHY**. The spacing is odd, almost as if Tim's name was added after. As if Bruce forgot, and had to go back and add it.

But the names under those are more alarming.

 **BRUCE** is next, then **ALFRED.** Written around the same time, Slade has to guess.

Bruce wanted to remember his kids first. Maybe he thought they were the most important things to remember, or maybe he thought that the other two were ones he'd never lose.

Alfred, the man who is his father in more or less every way... and his own name.

How far gone does someone have to be to fear losing their own name? To have to write it down somewhere they can look at?

How often did Bruce do exactly what Slade is doing right then, lying on the floor, reaching out to trail his fingers across the cut-in names, to remind himself of what was written there?

To try and hold onto the names of his family just a bit longer?

To try and hold onto his _own_ name just a bit longer?

And that thought, of Bruce alone in the cell staring at the names scratched into the wall scares Slade more than anything else ever has.

He doesn't want to lose himself the way Bruce has.


	36. Chapter 36

There is a change, and that changes draws Slade from his rest. Someone is opening the door, the door that is so rarely opened, and Slade shudders and withdraws.

The door being opened means pain. Nothing good ever comes from the door being open. He wants the door to be closed, but he knows he has no say in it, so he simply curls up tighter into a ball.

Someone is in his room. Someone is in his space. There are hands on his face, pulling his head up.

He stares blearily at the person in front of him and recognizes nothing.

"Fucking _collar_ —" the person says and then there's someone else and everything is too compressed and Slade knows that his brain isn't working right, he _knows_ it, and there's hands on his neck and—

The collar cracks. Someone is pulling it off, using an immense amount of force to get it free from his neck. It does not go easily, scraping a gouge as it comes free, but eventually it _is_ free.

"Up. Up up up up," someone chants and there's an arm being shoved under his armpit, looping around his back. Someone is supporting him, holding him up, and now they're carrying him towards the door, hauling his full weight.

He is being rescued, he realizes, the reality dawning on him. Someone has come to get him. He puts an immense amount of effort into narrowing his eye, trying to get the focus right.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize he isn't having issues seeing: the person is just wearing a mask that's black on the side, obscuring their features.

The other side, he realizes, is orange.

His mask. Or one of them. Someone's taken his masks.

Jason?

Jason feels right. It feels like it might be Jason.

Someone screams ahead of them as his rescuer hauls, Slade down the hallway. Slade is doing very little to help, his body struggling to try and clear the poison that's been pumped into it. He recognizes that the second person who was there isn't any longer, but he isn't together enough to remember when they went on ahead.

Another Bat?

There's a scream. Did the Bats come? Or...?

He doesn't want to let himself think about it. The situation is risky. If Bruce is there, the Court could get him back. Slade doesn't want that. He doesn't want the Court ever touching him ever again.

"Drink," his rescuer says, and something cold is pressed to his mouth. Water. _Water._ Slade gulps it down, his mouth feeling terribly dry. He needs water. Water. Food. Some actual rest that isn't being gained on a shitty piece of metal with constant lights beaming down into his eyes.

Someone—or something—bangs against a wall up ahead, an obvious and concerted attempt to draw their attention. It works, because Jason starts off again towards it, hauling Slade along with him. Slade manages to find his feet along the way, not quite walking but at least supporting some of his weight.

He realizes belatedly that the collar he was wearing is in his rescuers hand. Jason's hand. He's pretty sure it's Jason, the voice familiar, but the collar...?

"Why?" He grunts, half-intelligible at best. He tries to nod towards the collar and nearly throws up from the motion, head throbbing. He feels impossibly hot, burning up as his body tries to purge him of everything that's been injected into him. Everything that's built up, unable to be cleared out previously.

"I need to know what they put in you." Definitely Jason. Slade knows that much. Someone is clearing ahead of them, clearing their escape route. He sees bodies on the floor, people sprawled out. Some of them are very badly hurt. Some of them look straight up dead.

"Electrum," Slade slurs. He knows that much. He knows that's why he feels so awful. The court's been putting into him what they put into all their Talons, trying to see if it would stick. It's a toxic, poisonous mess that's intended primarily for use on people who are already dead.

Slade isn't dead. He knows that much.

"All the more reason to keep it for investigation," Jason says. "We're almost out."

He turns the corner and then they're out a door, down into the night air. It feels cold and almost painful on Slade's skin, and he twists away instinctively, only to be caught by Jason and pulled along once again.

"Come on," Jason urges him, and all Slade can manage to do is grunt in response.

Everything hurts. His entire body aches and he wants nothing more than to lie face down in the dirt for a few hours. Maybe vomit a few times to purge out all the _mess_ he's sure his insides must hold.

He doesn't have that option. Jason's not going to let him. Jason's going to drag him along to wherever the fuck they're going and Slade has a hard time caring.

There's a car, and Slade gets pushed unceremoniously into the back seat. It's actually almost a relief, because no one is trying to hold him upright: he's just lying in the back, letting the throbbing in his head take over.

They are leaving. They are leaving the place he's been kept behind. He doesn't understand how long he's been there. His sense of time is, he recognizes, completely broken. He can't tell how long it's been since they left the building. He can't tell how long he's in the car. He barely has the presence of mind to remember he's lying down in the back seat.

The car stops. He recognizes that much, all the more so because Jason pulls him out of it. He's so disconnected from reality that he really only registers landing in something soft—a bed?—and the _groan_ that he lets out as a result.

He has never felt so good as he does right then. Water is provided from him, a little bottle that he chugs, and then it's painfully easy to simply sink down into the bed and stop thinking at all.

It's the best sleep he's ever had.


	37. Chapter 37

Slade's sleep is pleasant. His wakeup is not. He wakes sometime in the early morning, judging by the light, and immediately rolls over to puke on the floor. What comes out is grey and silvery, making it relatively obvious that he's just puked out what they were putting into him.

Probably better out through his mouth then oozing out his skin.

He feels better than he did the night before, but that bar isn't high at all. He still feels fucking _awful,_ but he feels significantly more together. Significantly more _himself._

He takes everything in. His body is still mottled with bruises, and his neck is still stiff. His healing isn't working right, probably prioritizing the toxins they were dumping into him over any physical injury. He's got a headache, which no doubt goes hand in hand.

He is also, he realizes, in his bedroom: the one at the safehouse he was sharing with Bruce. It looks mostly the same as it did before, like it hasn't been touched, and for a moment he's struck with the fear that he hasn't been gone any time at all: that it's been a few hours, no longer, and his sense of time is just that shot.

He pushes the idea away. It's been a while. At least, he guesses, a few weeks. Maybe months. It's impossible for him to say, and he's hoping he doesn't have to wait long to find out.

Something colorful catches his eye, and he turns his head to find a small juice box sitting on the nightstand.

Bruce?

Bruce.

He reaches over, scoops it up, and tries for almost a minute to get the straw in properly. It's a stupid, nearly futile gesture, but there's such a rush of satisfaction when he finally gets it in.

He shouldn't be celebrating managing to get a straw in. He shouldn't be fucking _happy_ about that. He curses, furious at himself, and tries to calm himself down.

His heart is racing. His body isn't working like it should. His body should have already _purged_ whatever shit they put into him, and now he can't help but worry that whatever they've done has caused permanent damage.

What if they've fucked up his healing? What if he's stuck like this, useless and struggling with such simple things?

There's a knock at the door, and Slade's head jerks up just in time to see Jason pop his head in the door. The look of relief on Jason's face is readily apparent, and he steps inside, closing the door behind him the moment he sees Slade is up.

"You're awake."

"Barely," Slade grunts. He doesn't fucking _feel_ awake. He _feels_ like he's been hit by a truck. "How long was it?"

"What—"

_"How long did they have me, Jason?"_

Slade has no space to play around. He wants to know. He _needs_ to know. Right then, he needs to know how long the Court had him more than he needs to breathe.

And mercifully, Jason doesn't drag it out.

"Almost three weeks."

Three weeks, more or less. Slade turns the idea of that over in his head, trying to see how it fits with his own damaged cognition. Three weeks feels too long, but it also feels too short. His sense of time is so distorted that it feels like he's having to _force_ his brain to accept that Jason isn't going to lie to him. Not about something like that.

Jason does, however, take his silence as an opportunity to talk.

"We didn't realize you were gone right away. We thought you'd just been delayed. But when you didn't show up the next day, we realized something must have happened. By the time we managed to figure that out and get to the right place, they'd cleared it out. Lots of fragments, but all the Talons they had, and you, had been relocated."

They'd captured him, and then abandoned the place he'd been captured at. A smart move by the court, to say the least. It's the only reason they were able to keep him, and that idea only makes him more frustrated.

If Jason had gotten there a bit faster...

He pushes down the blame. It isn't productive, and it's not going to help.

"And?" he prompts, because Jason's gone silent, staring at him and probably wondering how much of what he's saying Slade is even hearing.

"It took a while to find you. Bruce was... he was really agitated, even with me staying with him. He knew something was wrong, even when I tried to keep to your schedule. And then he just... left. I woke up and he was gone and I'm not going to pretend like I didn't panic, because I did."

"Went to find the court?" It's a good, safe guess. It's the most likely answer. And yet saying it makes something burn low in Slade's gut, a feeling he can't quite put his finger on.

It's rare, he knows. It's... gratitude, maybe? He's thankful. If Bruce hadn't gone...

Even if Jason hasn't finished explaining, Slade has a pretty good idea of what happened. Jason was taking too long, so Bruce took things into his own hands. He probably got the wrong place to start—a safe bet, considering it took them three weeks—but he wouldn't let that stop him.

"He'd... he'd pretty much killed everyone in the base by the time I got there," Jason admits. "I managed to talk him down, explaining that we were trying to find you and he had to be careful. We were able to... to work together, basically. I don't want to call it communication, but... almost. We had an understanding."

Bruce. Bruce. Was Bruce there?

"He was there," Slade mumbles, putting the pieces together. "He banged on the wall to call you."

"He's not really a talker," Jason says with a smile. "He communicates in other ways. We've... I don't want to say we've got things figured out, but we're not doing awful."

Bruce. For the first time, Slade can say that he understands what someone's been through and really _mean_ it. He knows what Bruce has been through because it just happened, only Bruce didn't get rescued. Bruce continued to spiral downward, continued to degrade until there was no part of him left.

No part of Slade believes that was weakness on Bruce's part. He knows how effective it can be. Physical torture feels simple and easy to ignore compared to what the Court does, and he shudders instinctively at the thought, stomach churning.

"I feel like shit," he says, because he does. "I think... they might have broken my regeneration."

"You've only been out a few hours," Jason says, which doesn't seem right but then nothing about Slade's sense of time does. "Give it time. You're already a whole lot better than you were."

"Bruce?"

It seems to take Jason a moment to understand what he's asking, and Slade places the blame for that firmly on Jason's shoulders.

He should have known. He should have realized what he'd ask.

"He's in the living room, watching his shows. He's gone more or less back to normal now that you're safe at home."

Oh. He's safe. He's fine.

"Didn't get hurt?"

"He was fighting an army of Talons, Slade. He got hurt really bad and just... just picked himself back up and kept fighting. That's who he is, now. Your regeneration might be better day to day, but it has limits. His... doesn't."

What Jason isn't saying—but is very much dancing around—is that while trying to rescue him, Bruce died. He died, and he came back, and he probably died again. Slade's hands ball into the sheets, anger rising in his gut, and it takes a concerted effort for him to get it back under control.

"Thanks," he finally says. "Not sure I'd have been the same person when I got out of there if you hadn't come to rescue me."

"Thank Bruce," Jason corrects. "He's the one who wouldn't stop until we found you."

That thought, like so many more, burns low in Slade's gut.

Bruce wouldn't let him stay in the Court's clutches.


	38. Chapter 38

Jason brings him food—a bit of overly salty soup that tastes like it came out of a can—and insists Slade stay in bed. He doesn't need to have bothered, because Slade isn't stupid enough to try. His entire body feels moments away from vomiting again at any second, his every muscle tense, his head throbbing.

Jason makes no complaint as he cleans up, but doesn't make much conversation, either. Slade has the most important details, and there's nothing else he can do about the rest of them anyway. Even if he learned which Court bases were taken out, or how many people were killed, what would it matter?

His options are limited. All he can really do is rest.

He tries, getting pained, fretful sleep. Frequently, he's dragged from his rest by waves of pain, but over time it does seem to be subsiding.

He's healing, just not quickly.

He wakes at one point to a soft sound elsewhere in the room, and he looks up to find not Jason, but Bruce. He's perched on a chair, his legs pulled up to his chest, and there's a mug of something hot in his hands. He doesn't even seem to be drinking it right then, just holding it in his hands for warmth as he watches Slade sleep.

His mask is still a single, intact piece, which only lends to that idea. Does he open the mask himself to drink? Or does he not bother?

He doesn't seem to be particularly effected by everything that's happened. It seems like he's treating it like any other day, business as usual. The only _real_ difference is Slade himself, bed-bound and a mess.

Does Bruce defer to Jason as he used to defer to Slade? Or has he become independent now that Slade hasn't been there to give him structure?

The only way to find out is to wait and watch.

And maybe ask.

"You okay?"

He isn't expecting a verbal answer. Bruce doesn't talk, but he does sometimes communicate, and it's that he's hoping for. Bruce glances up, holding Slade's gaze, and then gives a sign even more positive than what Slade was hoping for: he nods.

So he clearly understands, even if his communication is limited.

Slade allows himself to relax just a little bit more.

Bruce gestures, first to himself and then to Slade. The impression Slade gets is something along the lines of _me, then you,_ and it takes a moment to realize it's more of _I answered, so should you._

"Feel like shit," he says. "Whatever they use to make people Talons, it isn't playing nice with my augmentations. The stuff they put in is trying to kill my body as fast as my body is trying to repair itself, and sitting through it isn't pleasant." He does feel more himself, which is good. He feels more... awake. Maybe it's a blessing the damage was so severe: what they were putting into him probably did a great job keeping him unconscious long enough to avoid actually suffering through what was happening more than he already did.

He has to drag himself back to reality.

"You killed them?"

Bruce nods. He killed a lot of them, and either he's fine with admitting it or knows Slade isn't going to judge him for it.

"Good."

Slade thinks, just for a moment, he sees the hints of a smile at the edges of Bruce's eyes, but it's hard to tell and it's gone too fast.

Instead, he sinks a bit more back into his sheets, already exhausted from such a short conversation.

"When I'm better," he mutters, half to himself, "we'll get rid of the rest. I'm not going to let them keep operating after this, Bats be damned." If Jason has an issue with him obliterating the Owls, he can go fuck himself. The line hasn't been crossed; it's been bombed from orbit, obliterated beyond recognition. No part of the line remains, and the moment he can, Slade's going to make them pay for it.

They lapse into silence. Bruce seems perfectly happy right where he is, holding his hot drink, so they don't talk at all until Jason returns. Apparently they have a system set up, because Jason immediately hands Bruce another mug—also steaming—and takes away the old one, now cold.

Bruce just likes having a warm mug in his hands, apparently.

"How are you feeling?" Jason asks, looking Slade over. Apparently he likes what he sees, because he doesn't wait for Slade's answer. "There's more color in your face now, at least. You were deathly pale when we got you out of there. I wasn't sure if you were going to make it, even with your regeneration."

"Haven't puked," Slade points out, because that's a win in his books. "It's coming back slowly. Still feel like shit overall, but I don't think that's going to change for a while."

"You probably need some food," Jason points out. "Something more substantial than soup. I'll see what I can put together."

"Just make a sandwich or something," Slade grunts. Jason's overcomplicating things. He's too used to being around someone like Alfred, who cares about _cooking._ Slade never has. He eats for energy and nutrition, but he's never bothered to spend even the tiniest amount of time learning to really cook.

Not that he found it particularly hard. Following directions has always come easy to him, so maybe it's more accurate to say that he's never bothered to learn to cook _off recipe._

Jason drifts out, and Slade sinks back into the bed.

Bruce is still there, still watching. Slade wonders if he's going to stay there when Slade inevitably nods off, unable to keep himself up. More pressingly, though, he wonders about what Bruce has been doing while he was gone. Bruce isn't going to give him an answer, but at the same time, asking Jason about it seems wrong. It seems like something Bruce should tell him personally... and he just can't.

Maybe that's the next step. Pushing for communication.

He considers it strongly, rolling the idea around in his head, but he knows he doesn't have the energy.

It's during that thought process that Slade nods off, exhaustion overwhelming him.


	39. Chapter 39

Slade isn't sure how long he's out. It _feels_ like he's slept an impossibly long time, but there's a sandwich waiting on the side table for him, and Bruce is still there, with a mug of something warm in his hands, and he looks the same as he did before.

Not that Bruce changes much. He basically always wears the same outfit, and since he doesn't sweat or really get dirty, showers basically a _reward_ since he'll just stand in the hot water all day.

"How long was I out?" Slade asks, before realizing it's a stupid question. Bruce can't answer him, and Jason isn't there, probably having left explicitly because he saw Slade was sleeping.

But as quickly as he decides it's a stupid question, he changes his mind. It's simple. It's something Bruce can probably easily understand. It's also easy to answer, not just with words, but in other ways. So rather than saying _nevermind_ or moving the conversation on, he turns his attention fully to Bruce and looks at him like he's expecting an answer.

Then he waits.

He waits, knowing that Bruce is probably uncomfortable. Knowing that he's pushing Bruce outside his comfort zone.

But he has to. Eventually, Bruce has to go beyond his current situation. He has to, if not talk, at least _communicate._ He has to be more of a person than the court ever let him be.

Bruce has withdrawn in response to what he's been through, but he's still fucking _in there,_ and Slade knows he's capable.

And Slade is inevitably rewarded for that faith.

After a moment, Bruce holds up one finger. Obviously not _one minute,_ so Slade takes a guess.

"An hour?"

A day's too long, so one hour is the obvious answer.

Bruce nods, which is another nice, positive step. Maybe Jason's been working on it, or maybe he's just improving on his own. Either way, improvement is improvement.

Slade eats and finishes his sandwich, and there's still no sign of Jason.

"Jason?" He prompts, and Bruce gets the idea immediately, ducking out of the room, mug still in hand, to fetch him. Jason arrives in record time, Bruce hot on his heels, and immediately lets out a weary sigh when he spots Slade.

"I thought you were _hurt."_

"Don't know why you'd think that," Slade replies with a grunt. The food, water, and sleep is doing a lot for him, and he feels... not _good,_ but better. Enough to stand, probably. Enough to talk without his head throbbing like it's about to implode on itself. "I'm going to assume the Court still has my suit?"

"We didn't exactly have time to go rifling around in their cupboards," Jason says, offended. "It took everything we had to get you out, you know."

"And I thanked you for it, so move on. What else happened while I was gone?"

"We spent a lot of time searching for you. The Court doesn't seem to have done anything obvious, but that's probably because they were focused on you."

"If the Court hasn't done anything obvious, it's because they're doing something _not_ obvious," Slade counters, pushing himself out of bed. He's wobbly, but his legs hold when he puts his weight on them. He also realizes he's in a pair of oversized pajamas, and after a moment decides he's not going to ask.

Better not to think about what a mess he was when Jason pulled him out of there.

"What about Gotham? City Council?"

"Uh... Barbara's been focused on that," Jason says. "Dick and I were handling night stuff, and he's been keeping an eye on day stuff with Tim."

"Did she send you _reports?"_

Considering that Jason was busy literally _saving his life,_ Slade probably shouldn't be so frustrated with him, but he is anyway. Most of it, Slade's well enough to recognize, is just redirected frustration: it's easier to be frustrated with Jason having no idea what's going on with City Council than it is to be frustrated with himself.

He's always just redirected feelings outward. He doesn't have the time to do anything else.

"Probably."

"Just call her," Slade says, digging through his closet for a change of clothes. He wants to wear pants. _Real_ fucking pants. Pants and a shirt and _underwear_ and... and actual clothes. He didn't realize how much he missed them.

Jason does. He doesn't protest, calling Barbara up and simply passing his phone right over. Slade tucks it in between his head and his shoulder as he works on getting dressed, ignoring everyone else in the room.

"Jason?" Barbara answers, sounding alarmed. "Everything alright?"

"Everything's fine. I'm up," he answers, letting his voice clarify for her. "I need to know what's been happening with City Council."

"With— Slade, you _just woke up._ You were tortured by the Court. Take a deep breath, go sit down, and let us handle this."

"No." He isn't leaving any room for argument. He's going to do this, with or without the Bats. "You can tell me what happened with the council or I can go find it myself."

"Rossini got ousted. Moroni is furious, of course, and he's been muttering threats at anyone and everyone. The whole council's wary—"

"They're fucking right to be, that means the Court has control."

There's a confused silence on the other end, and then rather abruptly, Barbara _gets it._

"Are you saying that March—"

"Is working for the Court, yes. The whole point of him is to get rid of Moroni's control, leaving the council under their control. Probably there are multiple people who are either members or under the Court's control, but I didn't have time to sniff out which ones. It doesn't matter; city council's a wash."

It's not going to matter either way. He's going to hit them where it hurts: if their entire command structure has been wiped out, it doesn't matter who's sitting on City Council.

So long as he cuts off the head...

"Slade," Barbara's voice is strained, almost desperate. "I know you're probably mad, and you're probably eager to get out there and hurt them for what they did to you, but you need to recover. You can't rush into this."

"Let's be honest, Barbara. You don't want me to _go into this_ at all, rushing or not. You want me to sit at home, recover, and maybe retire. Spend my golden years on a couch watching reruns."

She makes no attempt to deny it. He was a problem for them before, and he's even more of a problem for them now. They _know_ he's not going to take what happened to him lying down. Others might handle their anger with crying or therapy or who the fuck knows what, but Slade...

Well, Slade is _angry._ He's the kind of anger that's like ice, cold and hard and unyielding. It isn't going to melt. It isn't going to sputter out like hot anger so often does.

It's going to keep being there until his work is done. Until he's taken them apart.

"Nothing you can say is going to change my mind. Nothing you can possibly say is going to make me do anything other than kill every single one of them. You can save your breath, Barbara."

"Slade—" Jason starts. Even if he can only hear half the conversation, he's not stupid. He knows exactly what's being discussed.

But Slade cuts him off with a gesture, leaving Jason sputtering as he reaches for the phone. Slade moves to dance out of the way, and his leg fails him, cutting the conversation off abruptly as he drops to the floor, the phone bouncing away as he lets out a wheeze of pain.

It hurts. It shouldn't hurt, but it does. It's just a _fall,_ but he's pushed himself too fucking hard, too fucking fast, and there's a different kind of anger in his chest right then, and he can't even properly direct it elsewhere.

Stupid. Jason tries to help him up, and Slade knocks his hand away, breathing heavily as he pushes himself to his feet again. It takes too long. Too long just to _stand up,_ and all the while Bruce and Jason are just watching him.

Slade leans heavily against the wall, his voice sounding more ragged then it should when he finally manages to speak again.

"I am going to kill every single one of those bastards. I'm going to wipe them out to the last fucking man, and if you're going to try and stop me like the rest are, then you can get the fuck out."

He glares. He's good at that, even with only one eye. He has it down to a fucking _science,_ and he knows it's intimidating. Knows it's effective.

And he's turning it all on Jason.

Because the simple fact is that as good as they've got along during this whole escapade, Jason's still a Bat. He was raised to hold the stupid idea that _every life is important_ paramount. And sure, he's strayed from that, but every time he's _always_ gone back to the Bats.

And Jason is so obviously not certain. There's no 'of course I'll help take them down' like one would hope. He knows what the Court's done. He knows they _destroyed_ everything that Bruce was, and he knows they were trying to do the same for Slade.

And yet he can't decide, and he fucking _knows_ it.

"Can I... can I have some time to think about this?" Jason says after a long, long while.

Slade almost says no. He almost tells Jason to go fuck himself, but he decides that since Jason _did_ just save him, he can at least give him that.

Even if he's sure the answer is going to be _no, I can't support you._ Even if he's sure that Jason's biding for time to figure out how to remove Bruce from the situation.

That doesn't matter, though. No matter what, Bruce is going along with him.

Bruce deserves revenge even more than Slade does, after all.


	40. Chapter 40

Slade shouldn't let himself, but he finds himself mulling over the possibilities anyway. Jason has always been the most willing to compromise Bruce's _rules_ of all the Bats, but it's been on a rotating basis. Sometimes he rejects them out of hand, going off to do his own thing. Sometimes he clings tight to them, falling in with the rest of the bats in a neat, orderly line.

As far as Slade knows, it's been more of the latter than the former since Bruce's death. The Bats had clung together, and Jason had made no attempt to fight that. Maybe he'd thought he was honoring Bruce's final wishes. Maybe he actually _was_ —Slade wouldn't put it past Bruce to leave a final message that locked the whole pack into his self-imposed rule—but Slade didn't think it would have mattered either way.

He expects Jason to come back and tell him no. To say that he can't be involved, and that Bruce shouldn't either. That Bruce wouldn't have wanted it, and right then he doesn't know what he wants anyway.

Slade's prepared to fight him for it.

The Bruce who was so strict about killing—so absolutely desperate for it that he'd spare even the most reprehensible of people—is gone. Trying to bring that back isn't just pointless, but actively harmful. _This_ Bruce doesn't need to be buried in guilt for the murders the Court made him carry out. _This_ Bruce has enough on his plate as it is.

Slade composes arguments in his head. He figures out opportunities, ways he can do things. Plans of attack. Methods of escape. He is confident, without even really thinking about it, that Bruce will go along with whatever he asks.

But he tries not to rush things. He doesn't _know_ what Jason's going to say, and when Jason does return, his patience is rewarded.

Slade knows the answer before Jason even opens his mouth, because Jason is _mad._ The anger is immediately obvious, from the tension in his shoulders to the stiff way he's holding his body.

Which means that he's going to say yes. Slade _knows,_ and has to fight the instinct to feel triumphant. Jason is upset, after all... even if it means Slade's won.

"Those _absolute fucking assholes!"_ Jason yells, and Bruce's head snaps up, eyes narrowing defensively. Slade makes a note of that, but it isn't surprising: Bruce doesn't like yelling.

"Oh?" He prompts. He's sitting in the bed, not quite willing to try getting up again. He's pushing himself too hard, he recognizes, but that isn't enough to actually make him _stop._

"They heard about the raids. They had a whole lecture about how many people got killed, and how I should have done more for Bruce, and how he'd be horrified at what he's doing."

Slade doesn't entirely disagree, but he'd _love_ to know what the rest of the Bats thought Jason would be able to do about it. Realistically speaking, Bruce was in charge; he was going to find Slade whether or not Jason came along.

"And then it was right back to the same fucking song and dance we've been going through since I first joined them. _Jason, you're too willing to bend the rules. Jason, we made a commitment not to kill. Jason, if you'd just be honest..."_

Ah. That's it.

"They think you're the one who killed the Joker."

There's a tiny flinch from Jason at the name, and he turns away for a moment, probably pulling himself together. Only once he's done does he turn back to Slade, still furious beyond belief.

"They've _always_ believed that. The moment they found his body, they were convinced it was me. They were convinced I'd snapped. I joined them a later and they were _still_ convinced, no matter how much I told them I hadn't done it. As far as they're concerned, I did it, it's done, and they're willing to forgive me for doing it so long as I don't do it again."

And, very clearly, Jason finds that more frustrating than if they'd refused to let him in at all. He's being forgiven for something he wasn't even responsible for, and Slade decides not to mention that he'd _also_ made the same assumption.

It's the most obvious one, after all. Jason is the one with the most reason to attack the Joker. Jason's the one who's always campaigned for someone to finally do the Joker in. With Bruce gone, the idea that he'd be willing to finally take the clown out back and put them down is somewhere a step beyond _obvious:_ it's downright undeniable.

And yet Jason _is_ denying it, and under the circumstances, Slade can't see why he'd lie. It's not as if Slade's going to judge him for it. If anything, Slade's judging him for _not_ being the one to do him in.

Slade's also wondering who _did._ With Jason, the Bats, and the whole of the GCPD ruled out, who else has the skill? Motivation isn't really a factor—harder to find someone in Gotham who _wouldn't_ kill the Joker given a chance—but skill most certainly is. For all his faults, the Joker was still an excellent fighter.

"So I'm done," Jason finishes, gritting his teeth. "If they're going to just assume I'm going to be doing things, I might as well do them."

It's a shockingly childish viewpoint, one that doesn't suit Jason at all. He's angry right then, and he'll regret saying it later, but right then his anger is playing in Slade's plans perfectly, so Slade isn't about to point that out.

"I need to know what places you visited while trying to find me," Slade says. He shouldn't be upright, but he's never taken anyone's advice in his life, so he stays sitting up anyway. "Bring me my laptop, and I'll make a list."

Jason looks like he's about to argue, and then changes his mind, leaving the room to go get a laptop.

He's going to need a phone, too. His old one is almost certainly gone, captured by the Court.

It's also probably exploded, because Wintergreen isn't an idiot.

Which is another loose end he needs to tie up—checking what Wintergreen has or hasn't heard. Jason probably doesn't know how to contact him directly, but he's resourceful enough to find a way some way or another.

He keeps busy for the next hour, collecting information from Jason, referencing it against what he already has, and calling Wintergreen (who reports that yes, he _did_ remotely detonate Slade's phone when he realized he was captured, and no, he _isn't_ surprised to find out that he's alive).

And when he sways, a wave of nausea running through him, Jason doesn't bother him.

Bruce, on the other hand, does.

Bruce leans over, pushing Slade's shoulder to get him to lie down. Slade grunts, refusing to go, and Bruce simply applies more pressure in a silent battle of wills that Slade is absolutely going to lose, because even sitting up is exhausting.

He goes down with a grunt of protest, and Bruce returns to sitting up straight like he _didn't_ just force Slade to lie down for his own damned good.

Jason eyes Bruce, but he doesn't seem all that surprised. Or at least not as surprised as Slade is. Bruce has clearly improved... or maybe he's just more willing to assert himself now.

Maybe it's the lack of structure. Or maybe he's more confident because he just got to slaughter his way through a whole lot of owls.

Who knows?

"You need to be better," Jason finally says, apparently having decided that Bruce is likely to back him up on the matter. "We can't take them down if you can't stand."

"Give me a few hours."

"You need a few _days,_ at least... and that's just for the physical side of things."

The physical is all that matters. The only thing that's going to soothe his other wounds is wiping the Court from the face of the Earth.

Slade grunts in response.

"Get some rest now. The faster you heal, the faster we can do this, right?"

Jason's clearly using his own logic against him, and the bastard knows it: he's got a shit-eating grin on his face, clearly waiting for Slade to argue with him so he can turn it around on him.

Fucker.

"I'll get some rest," Slade says, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "I better not wake up and find you doing nothing."

"I better not check in and find you awake," Jason counters, before turning his head to Bruce, who's silently watching the two of them. "Don't let him get out of bed."

Bruce nods—it's damned unmistakable as anything else—and Slade wonders for a moment when they got so fucking _chummy_ before realizing the answer is obviously _while you were being tortured._

Fantastic.

Slade rolls onto his side, buries his face into the pillow, and goes back to sleep.


	41. Chapter 41

Slade wants to go after the Court right then, but Jason isn't going to let him. In fact, Jason is rather stubbornly refusing to let him do a lot of things. He makes Slade stay in bed for the rest of the day, instructing Bruce to keep him there.

Slade doesn't try and fight him on it. He _does_ need rest, and he reasons that waiting a bit longer to be ready to go fight the Court isn't going to harm things more than him needing to recover at all already has.

It's a stupid, frustrating state of affairs. Slade hates being at anything less than his prime, and he hates being babysat even more.

He's expecting to be left alone, outside of Bruce keeping an eye on him, but late that afternoon there's a knock at the door and then, of all people, Barbara Gordon comes in.

He shouldn't really be surprised by her presence. Of all the Bats, she's the obvious choice: the one the least likely to set off Bruce, the one with the most emotional distance, and the one who's had the most exposure to Slade recently.

He has every reason to be surprised by her reaction to him, though. Barbara looks him over, lets out what is undeniably a sigh of relief, and then settles in on the chair Jason was using to talk.

"It's good to see you're this awake. From what Jason said, it sounded like he wasn't sure if you were going to recover at all, let alone so quickly."

"I don't stay down long," Slade counters. Should he be offended? He feels like he should. It also feels like he should be _wary,_ because Barbara's clearly come all the way out to the safehouse to argue with him. Maybe even fight him, although he doubts that; she doesn't seem the type to attack someone who can't fight back, and right then Slade's confident she'd kick his ass.

But right then he's more focused on what she _isn't_ doing than what she _is._ She's focused on him. She's pointedly _not_ focused on Bruce, more or less completely ignoring his presence. It's like he isn't even there, and Slade can think of a dozen reasons why.

Because she doesn't realize he's aware enough to follow the conversation? Because she's not comfortable with the reanimated corpse of a man she once looked up to and the way he's looking at her? There are a lot of possibilities and a lot of them are, frankly, really shitty.

He bites his tongue anyway, if only to find out what she wants.

"Go on," he says instead. "Say whatever you were going to say."

She has clearly prepared for this. She knows exactly what she's going to say, and she launches into it without hesitation.

"I want to talk to you about Jason."

Slade, of course, cuts her off. There are too many details he's completely unfamiliar with, and he's not talking about some of them with Jason potentially nearby, and likely to overhear.

"Does he know you're here?"

Barbara scrunches up her face, apparently unable to tell if he's serious, and then rolls her eyes when she realizes that he is.

"Of course he knows. How could he _not_ know? He knows I'm here, but he doesn't want to talk to me, so he decided to be busy somewhere else."

That does sound like Jason.

"Either way," Barbara says with a wave of her hand, forcibly course correcting the conversation back to what she wanted to talk about in the first place, "Jason. I don't know what the two of you have been talking about, but I don't think Jason has thought this through. I think, if he does this, he's going to regret it."

"If Jason wants to be involved, that's his prerogative. I'm not his boss—for that matter, he's _mine."_

More or less. The line's gotten a bit blurry, but the idea of the thing is still there. A general _impression._ He's no longer sure what exactly the job is (is it just to look after Bruce? Or is it to help him improve?), and they haven't talked about how the Owls play into it, but it doesn't matter: he and Jason are in full agreement.

"I'm not asking you to _order_ him to stay back. I'm just asking you to... to think about what would be best for him. Losing Bruce—" She falters, eyes flicking over to where Bruce sits, silent and still, for the first time since she entered the room.

And then her eyes are back on Slade's, with only the slightest pause to indicate anything was amiss.

"—was hard for all of us. All of us dealt with it differently, and Jason... Jason struggled as much as any of us." There sounds like there's more there, but Slade's pretty confident that if Barbara was going to tell him, she would have already. "We all decided to commit to his ideals. To... to hold ourselves to the standard he believed we could reach. Jason did that too, and while he's angry right now, I think he'd regret breaking it."

Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn't.

"That's not my business," Slade points out. "I'm not going to tell him to stay back, and if that's what you're coming for, you're wasting your time."

"He isn't talking to me... or any of us," Barbara says, and she seems genuinely pained by that. "I just don't want him to—"

"You don't want him to kill anyone, only the whole reason he's not talking to you is because you already think he has."

Barbara's reaction immediately tells Slade that he's wrong. Somewhere along the line, he's got faulty information, because there's no other explanation for the way her face scrunches with frustration.

"I _know_ he didn't kill Joker," she counters. "So does Tim."

Alfred technically hasn't been ruled out, but just from the way she says it, the answer is obvious.

"And Dick does?"

Barbara doesn't want to talk about it. Maybe it's too painful, or maybe she just thinks it's too much of a personal matter to include Slade in. At the same time, she all but _has_ to, because she desperately wants Slade on her side, a completely pointless gesture that absolutely isn't going to happen.

"Dick's relationship with this is... complicated. I don't know if Dick really believes Jason did it, but I think Dick _wants_ to believe that he did. He wants to believe that it was one of us who finally did it, and not some random person who got lucky. So he keeps... forgiving Jason for it."

That's... new. A lot of what Barbara (and Jason, for that matter) have told him were either things he already knew, or things he could figure out for himself, but the idea that Dick would _want_ not just for the Joker to be dead, but for Jason to have done it...

Apparently he's doing a worse job than usual hiding his reactions, because Barbara responds to his confusion.

"He killed him before. Dick killed the Joker, I mean. It was after Jason had... _died,_ and the Joker went after Tim, and Dick absolutely lost it on him. He... he basically beat him to death, a lot like what actually happened."

_What?_

Of everything he's learned, the fact that Dick Grayson apparently _beat the Joker to death_ is the most stunning piece of information Slade can imagine. He thinks he'd be less shocked if she'd just announced that Dick was actually an alien all along. He doesn't even make the flimsiest attempt to pretend not to be shocked, letting his eyebrows not just shoot up, but stay up, because _how is he even supposed to handle that information?_

"What happened?" is all he can manage to say after what feels like a lifetime of struggling to come up with a decent response.

"Bruce saved him. He told us there was a line, and we couldn't cross it. So he... he brought the Joker back, and sent him off for medical care, and that whole thing really... it really shook Dick. I don't think he realized how angry he could get, or what he might do in that anger. After that point he worked on getting it under control. On not... lashing out in his anger. But I don't think his feelings about it are purely regret. I think every time someone got hurt because of the Joker after that, it made him wonder if things wouldn't have been better if Bruce hadn't saved him."

So the golden boy wasn't so shiny.

Even if in the end, no one had died, from what Barbara had said, Dick had never quite recovered from what happened. Killing the Joker had planted seeds of doubt in his head, had made him wonder if maybe Bruce was _wrong._ And he'd warred with not just with Bruce, but but with himself over the matter.

And now he was, without realizing it, pissing Jason off by _forgiving_ him for something Dick wish that he'd done himself.

For something Jason hadn't done at all.

He ponders the possibility for a moment that Dick might have done the deed himself—the MO's line up, at least—but dismisses it. If Dick had, he wouldn't be shifting the blame (or forgiveness, in this case) to someone else. Certainly not to Jason.

Barbara is looking at him pointedly, and only then does Slade realize that Barbara is staring at him because she expects, having heard the truth, that Slade will magically have an epiphany about how murder is wrong and actually Jason shouldn't be involved.

Which isn't going to happen.

"Well, the Court isn't the Joker, but they did murder his father, so I think it all about evens out," he says, and Barbara goes from hopeful to irritated in a blink, scowling at him.

"You can't be serious. If Jason does this, he—"

"He's an adult, who can make his own choices. I don't know what you expected, coming to _me_ to help Jason make a decision based on _your_ morals."

Apparently Barbara's come to the same conclusion, because her frustration is readily apparent. Maybe she thought things would go differently. Maybe she expected something else from him.

Or maybe she was just reaching out to the only option she had.

Either way, she didn't get the answer she wanted.

She stands, still ignoring Bruce where he watches them, and gives Slade her full attention.

"I'm going to go. But try and keep what I've told you in mind. Try and think about what it could do to Jason if he's involved in this. About how he'll feel about all this when it's over and done with."

She doesn't wait for a response, and without another word, Barbara leaves him behind.


	42. Chapter 42

Slade hopes for peace, but doesn't expect to actually get it. He knows how the Bats work by this point, and he's fully expecting one of them to show up and interrogate him in short order.

It turns out to be Tim, which is the obvious answer. It's unclear if Bruce and Dick can be in the same room without Bruce attacking, and Slade seriously doubts they've tried while he's been gone. With Barbara having already said her piece, that really just leaves Tim.

Tim, who arrives in Slade's room with scarcely more than a knock at the door. Bruce is still there, of course, perched on a chair and watching Slade. His cup's gone cold, and Jason hasn't been back in more than an hour.

Now Slade knows why.

Unlike Barbara, who could not hide her discomfort with Bruce, Tim instead acknowledges him first, ignoring Slade instead.

"Bruce," he says, offering a nod but not quite a smile. "Everything alright?"

It isn't perfect, but Slade doesn't expect it to be. Tim is interacting with a man who was once, if not his father, than a father figure to him. He's handling it with grace, but it's still difficult for him to deal with, and when Bruce stares at him—maybe nodding, maybe not, Slade can't tell—Tim moves his attention away, over to Slade.

Tim looks perfectly fine. There's no sign that his arm was dislocated however many weeks before. There are, however, signs of stress—his eyes are sunken, his skin unhealthily pale. He hasn't been getting enough sleep, apparently, and Slade can guess why.

"Feeling any better?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Slade counters. Tim doesn't do him the disservice of pretending not to know what he means, just takes the seat that's been set up by Slade's bedside for conversations exactly like this one and lets himself sag into it.

"I'm more worried about you," Tim says. "Jason implied he thought the Court might have damaged your regeneration."

 _Implied._ Not _said._ Considering he literally had Jason caring for him for the past few weeks, it's hard to imagine why Jason would bother keeping that a secret, or at least not being up front. Just how terrible is the communication between them, anyway?

"I assume you're here to plead for Jason's innocence, and that I shouldn't let him commit murder because murder is _wrong."_

He doesn't bother to roll his eyes. He thinks his disdain for the idea is self-evident.

And to his surprise, Tim answers him with surprise and confusion.

"What? No. Why—" He cuts himself off, realizing. "Barbara did? Dick wouldn't have come by, but Barbara..."

"She plead her case. It was less than convincing."

What does it matter to _him_ if Jason might one day regret helping? That would be his own failing, for not being able to think about things outside the lens Batman provided him all those years ago.

Tim simply shakes his head, and Slade doubts that he's lying about not knowing. The Bats are deeply fragmented, and even describing their communication as _poor_ is being too generous.

He's genuinely not even sure if the Bats talk at _all_ outside of need-to-know information. He'd assumed their communication was strained with Jason, but it seems to go beyond that.

"No, it's— I'm not here to lecture you or anything like that. After Jason told us what was going on, and what the plan was, I talked with Dick and we agreed we want to help."

For a moment, Slade's surprised, and then he realizes what Tim _really_ means. The Bats know he, Bruce, and Jason will be going ahead with the plan regardless. They don't have the firepower to stop them, even if they wanted to.

But if they go along, they can try and minimize the damage. They can try and save people that might otherwise die. They're effectively hoping to run interference under the guise of helping.

And Slade, now on the spot, has to decide if he wants to take that help.

Or perhaps more accurately, Slade has to decide if he can afford to _not_ take their help.

How long can they afford to wait before striking? Is he going to be even close to being at his peak? Even if he was, would that be enough? He's already fallen to the Talons once—will Bruce and Jason be enough? What if they have to strike multiple locations in one night?

Laying it all out like that, the answer is obvious. They need help, and Tim (and Dick, apparently) are willing to provide.

"I assume there are terms attached to this."

Tim offers a short laugh at that.

"Yes, there are terms. I'm not going to... I mean, I would ask you not to kill anyone, but I know you'd just say no, so it's pointless to even bother. But I still think it would be helpful for us to go, so we want to... to try and minimize collateral damage. People who aren't involved in the court shouldn't be in danger. No... big explosions that level buildings in order to cover escapes, or setting fires to burn the Court out. No killing people who just happen to work at Court shell companies and aren't even aware the Court's a real thing. No torture."

Slade narrows his eye at that last one. He's not a big fan of torture—it rarely produces results, and what it does produce can't be trusted—but he knows that his definition of torture and the Bat's definition of torture are probably a world apart.

"Define torture."

Tim narrows his eyes in return.

"I think you know what I mean when I say torture."

That's fair—Slade does have a pretty good idea of what a Bat would consider torture. And while the rest are fine—and more or less part of his usual MO anyway, because collateral damage like that is deeply unprofessional and makes him look like it's his first day on the job—the _no torture_ is... well, he's less enthusiastic for that one.

"How about _I'll try,"_ Slade says instead. "I'm not making any promises like that unless I know the situation, and right now, we don't."

"Right now you can't even stand. We've got enough time to scout this out properly."

Slade genuinely can't tell if Tim is trying to put it off for a reason, or if he's just being an idiot.

"We don't have time. The longer we wait, the more prepared they get. They know we're coming, and they're going to be pulling on every resource they can. The court has significant financial resources, and if we're not careful, they're going to hire people just like me and we'll have to go through them, too."

"Slade, you can't _stand up."_

In a display of monumental stupidity, Slade does. He has to prove that he can, even though every muscle in his body is screaming at him that it's too soon, that he's not ready yet. He's healing, but he's not healing fast enough.

Tim looks deeply unimpressed by Slade standing. In fact, he seems to see right through him more or less immediately.

"Sit down," Tim says, but he's beaten to the punch. Bruce is there in between the blinks of Slade's eye, and he rests a hand on Slade's shoulder, pushing him back down to the bed. Slade goes, pretending he's been forced when really it's more like his legs buckled on their own, but he grinds his teeth as he does, frustrated.

"We can't just stand around. We need to act," Slade says, trying to convey just how desperate their situation is. 

"And if we act now, you'll die."

Tim is absolutely sure about that fact. For him, there's no question about the outcome. They will go to fight the court, and they _will_ die.

Slade just can't let that happen.

There has to be another way.


	43. Chapter 43

Slade does not take to his recovery well. He hates sitting around doing nothing, and there's very little he can do from bed. Jason stops by to check on him, as does Tim (who seems to be a lot more _present_ than he was expecting), but for the most part it's him and Bruce.

Slade's feelings on that are mixed. Bruce isn't what he would usually look for in company during a long and boring stretch of time. He isn't hostile, or aggressive, but it's not as if they can _talk._

The usual dynamic—of Slade as Bruce's guide or protector—is gone. Slade can no longer be counted on in that way, and that leaves Slade uncertain of where they stand. Bruce is protecting _him_ now. Guarding him from dangers.

Hiding him from the Court.

"You didn't have to go save me," Slade says, with no sort of lead up or introduction. "You could have gone anywhere and done anything. No one could have stopped you. If you'd wanted to stay here with Jason, you could have. But instead you went to find me. Hard not to feel like you did it because you knew what was going to happen to me and wanted to make sure they didn't get a chance, only I can't tell if I'm reading too much into it."

It isn't like having a conversation. It's more like he's talking to himself, and someone else just happens to be in the room with him. He's not really _talking_ to Bruce, which makes it easier for him. Less thinking about what to say and how to say it. There's no need to worry about expressing himself properly if it's just him talking to himself.

"I honestly don't know what to do with you _or_ about you. I don't know if I'm supposed to treat you like you were, or like something entirely new. There's no goal here, and now that everything's happened, I can't just walk away."

It's not just about money. Not anymore. Not after he lay on the floor in that miserable room and saw the names under the bed, hidden away.

Not after Bruce and Jason saved him from that being _his_ life.

"I shouldn't say that," he corrects, leaning back against his pillows and staring at the ceiling. "There's a goal. I need to destroy them. Take them apart so thoroughly that nothing remains intact, and then burn it all to the ground. Make sure they never make another Talon."

And put every other Talon to a final rest. Bruce is a special case, Slade is certain, because he's _Bruce._ The others have shown none of Bruce's awareness.

Maybe they could. Or maybe not. He doesn't know enough about how they're made. Even if the process was the same, though, Slade isn't going to be the one handling that.

If they can be saved, then that's a Bat problem.

"I'm not going to let them stop me from doing that. Dick's going to give me some fucking speech about how revenge is _wrong_ and _bad_ and _not what you would want,_ but he can go fuck himself. This isn't just some petty child's revenge, lashing out against someone who hurt them. This is more then that. This is making absolutely sure that the Court is a dead end. That they never get a chance to try again, with me or anyone else. It's putting a stop to something _evil."_

Slade doesn't believe in good and evil, yet it slips out anyway. What the Court is doing—what they _were_ doing to him—is wrong. It's not just killing or torture, but breaking someone down to nothing to make them into a glorified robot.

And he hates it.

Maybe just a _bit_ because it was happening to him specifically.

"I'm going to destroy them and everything they stand for, and then I'll let myself think about what else needs to get done."

There's so much else to do, and he can't let himself think about it. He can't let himself get wrapped up in things like Bruce's long term recovery, or where he's going to live, or anything even _vaguely_ important.

He only has room for the Court.

Slade turns his head, looking at Bruce for the first time since he started rambling. Bruce is watching him, his eyes bright and alert. Listening, without question, but how much he's comprehended of what Slade's been saying is impossible to gauge.

"I'm going to destroy them so they never do this to anyone else ever again," he says, locking his eye with Bruce's own. "Will you help?"

Bruce nods. There's no hesitation; he understands.

Slade lets out a ragged sigh he didn't realize he was holding, He's still so fucking _tired,_ and as much as he wants to just roll out of bed and get going, he knows he can't. He has to maximize his time, make it as productive as possible. What would the court be doing right then? Probably trying to locate their hideout. They need to minimize coming and going, and lay as low as possible.

But that doesn't play nice with the second thing they need to do: gather information. Slade's _guesses_ about what the Court is doing isn't going to work. They need actual answers, and that means...

Does he want to send Bruce? He considers only for a moment, and then changes his mind. The risk is too great. If Bruce went out and was captured alone, getting him back before the Court fucked with his brain would be all but impossible.

They have to be careful.

"Can you grab Jason?" He says, forcing himself to sit upright before Jason can get there. Bruce nods, and then he's off, vanishing into the rest of the house to fetch him.

Jason bursts in with a panic, and then immediately relaxes with an obvious scowl when he sees Slade.

"I thought you were _hurt._ Bruce... I don't know, _implied_ it was urgent."

"No idea how you got that out of him pointing," Slade says, taking a guess. "We need to go get March."

"What? Is this about... whatever you were talking with Barbara with on the phone? That March is working with the Court?"

"At this point, we have almost no idea who is _actually_ involved with the Court. We have ideas where they have influence, but no solid answers. We need those, and that means going to the one person I'm _sure_ is the Court."

"He's not just some random person, Slade. He's a member of the Gotham City Council, and you're acting me to kidnap them."

At least Jason doesn't try and pretend like he doesn't know what he's being asked to do. He knows _exactly_ what Slade is talking about: kidnapping Lincoln March, interrogating him, and learning everything they can.

Slade isn't ruling out killing him, either, depending on how involved in the Court he is. He's going to root them out to the very end.

"He's our only link. If the Court is allowed to do as they please, no one in Gotham is going to be safe."

They already aren't. The Court has been moving already, and the Bats are behind the curve.

Bruce is the perfect example of that.

"I'll talk to Barbara. She's the one with the connections to the council. Maybe she can... question him."

"That isn't going to work. He'll play dumb, say they're just a children's story."

"We have to try," Jason sounds like he's fucking _pleading_ with Slade, and it's obvious why: he's trying to play nice with the other Bats again, sliding back into the same dysfunctional relationships that have hurt him so badly in the past.

How many times has he done the same thing? Decided to set out on his own, only to return to them because he's so fucking desperate for their approval?

Slade's hands ball into fists.

He wants to tell Jason to grow a fucking spine, to stand on his own and tell the Bat's to go fuck themselves, but he knows it isn't going to help. It's just going to piss Jason off, and they _need_ the Bat's help, and...

And it's more complicated then just that.

Jason isn't _wrong_ to want the approval of those he respects. The relationship is a mess, but no one's trying to harm one another. They just have to figure their shit out.

They need, in Slade's clearly correct opinion, a _stabilizing influence._

Like him.

An outside force to act upon their relationship, course correcting until things are less fucking awful.

He takes a nice, deep, calming breath and gets himself into the right mindset to bullshit.

"It's worth a try. I would mention the original plan to Barbara, so she knows what to expect down the line."

More like so that she sees that Jason made a choice to go along with what _she_ would want first. To compromise. So she recognizes what he's trying to do.

Jason relaxes, almost _smiling,_ and nods.

"You just... keep healing. I'll go talk to her, and see if we can't go today to talk to him. Get everything going as fast as possible."

Slade grunts, lets himself lay back into his pillows, and nods. Jason turns to Bruce, gives a quick nod and a grin, and then he's gone, out the door and off on business.

And to Slade's immense surprise, Bruce only lingers another thirty seconds... and then slips out the door after Jason without a word of explanation, leaving Slade alone in the room and completely baffled.

Wasn't Bruce supposed to be watching him?


	44. Chapter 44

Slade waits patiently in his room, or at least as patiently as he can manage. He has no idea where Bruce has gone or what he's doing, but he can guess: probably he's decided to skip the _talking_ and go get Lincoln March himself.

Slade won't object. Barbara—and probably Jason—likely will.

So it comes as an immense surprise when not ten minutes later, Bruce returns, completely ruling out the possibility of him going to find March.

Instead, he has a plate in one hand, which he sets down on the bed in front of Slade.

There's a sandwich on the plate, if it could be called that. It's definitely bread, and some kind of meat, but the construction's sloppy and it seems to be missing multiple pieces. For all the fine control and dexterity that Bruce demonstrates in battle, out of it his control seems rough. Likely, just collecting the ingredients and stacking them up was the extent of Bruce's non-combat motor skills.

Which is... odd. Why is he so stiff out of combat? Is it something like adrenaline that lets him operate? There might be a _reason_ for why his body works that way, but Slade suspects that the reason is a purely mental one: that the Court was so laser focused on maintaining his fighting ability that they fucked everything else up in the process.

"Thanks," Slade says after a moment, reaching down to pick up the sandwich. It takes a bit of shuffling to keep it together, and the thing's bone-dry when it gets to his mouth, but he supposes, just this once, it's the thought behind the gesture that counts.

Bruce watches silently as Slade works his way through the sandwich, and when Slade's done, he collects the plate—even the way he holds it in two hands is wrong and looks terribly awkward—and leaves, presumably to the kitchen.

Is that new? Has he done this before with Jason? That's a regret of missing the last few weeks: Slade can't tell what's a major milestone, and what's just business as usual. Bruce has improved, that can't be denied, and he can't help feeling a bit sour that he's apparently missed part of that.

They were doing so fucking _well._

Slade sinks back into his bed and tries very hard not to sulk.

Bruce returns again to sit with him, but there are no more surprise sandwiches, and Slade's hope that Bruce was going to drag March back with him goes unanswered.

Which means it's entirely on the Bats to deal with it, and Slade absolutely _hates_ that.

He waits, full of nervous energy, and tries not to think about all the ways the Bats could be fucking up. Every minute seems to take an hour, and as they tick by he becomes more and more nervous.

Surely they must have called by now. Surely they should be checking in.

And every time he starts getting _too_ nervous, he reminds himself that it hasn't been _that_ long, and that he's worrying for no reason.

Until he isn't.

The door to his room is partially open, and Slade can hear the sound of a phone ringing. In the time it takes for him to flick his eyes over to Bruce, Bruce is already on it, heading into the house to retrieve the phone.

He doesn't answer—there's not much point—holding onto the ringing phone until he reaches Slade to hand it over.

Slade checks the caller ID—it's Dick—and then answers with what feels like a stone in his belly.

"What happened?"

"What, no hello?"

Slade glares daggers at the phone, biting back a nasty comment.

"If you're calling, it's important. Tell me what happened."

"It's not that urgent," Dick clarifies. He sounds almost apologetic, which just tells Slade that he probably _sounds_ too upset over the situation. "You're going to have to wait for them to get back anyway. Your idea was right... and wrong. Not long after they started questioning March about the Court, two Talons showed up and grabbed him."

Slade's brain is very suddenly running a mile a minute. He doesn't have _time_ to be groggy.

"In public?"

"In his office. Near enough. Barbara managed to smooth things over with the police, and they should be heading home, but the public knows."

That's bad. It's _very_ bad. If the Court is willing to make such a public move, that means they're stepping up their game. Either they're moving out of the shadows entirely, or they're doing things so sloppy because they're on a time limit. Either way is bad. Either way doesn't give Slade enough time to fully recover. He doesn't have that option.

"I'm getting my stuff ready, but Jason wanted me to call and give you a heads up before he gets home."

Beside him, Bruce is very clearly listening. He's cocked his head slightly, listening in to most likely the entire conversation. How much of it does he understand? How much is he following?

More than Slade gave him credit for, apparently.

"I'll talk to Jason when he gets back," Slade says, hanging up the phone without even a goodbye.

His mood only grows worse in the twenty minutes it takes for Jason to get back. His shirt's torn, but physically he looks fine. Barbara, however, isn't with him.

"Dick called?" he asks as he strides into Slade's room, taking his seat like he was never gone. "He told you what happened?"

"That the Court stepped in to take March." Slade doesn't see the point in explaining the whole thing to Jason, who was _there._ "If the Court is willing to do this, it doesn't mean anything good for us."

"I know," Jason says, and if nothing else it's such a fucking _relief_ that Jason can follow along without Slade having to explain everything again. He's always hated working in groups, because it means the whole group is held to the level of the stupidest person involved, and yet he almost never gets that feeling with Jason. If Jason's behind, it's only because Slade hasn't told him something key.

Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.

"I think he knows something they were afraid of us finding out," Jason explains, getting up from his seat and starting to pace around the room. "That was the impression I got from our conversation. He was loyal to them, but if he'd let it slip, the Court would be in trouble. Either way, our options are limited—we need to go, and we need to go _fast._ We need to rescue him from the court, because when the Talons came for him... he was afraid."

"Then he's probably already dead," Slade says. Jason might be smart, but he's still too idealistic by half. "He's not important enough to be kept alive. If they're worried he's going to tattle, they'll make sure that he doesn't by breaking his neck."

It's not a _guess._ Slade knows how people like the Court work. He knows what they'll do.

"He might not be dead," Jason says, clinging to the possibility. "We can't just give up."

On that, at least, they agree.

"We aren't giving up. We need to move against them tonight."

Jason stops his pacing entirely, turning to gawk at Slade.

 _"Tonight?_ Are you insane? There's no _we_ if it's tonight. You can barely walk."

"I can walk, but I can't fight as well as I should. I'm not going to be able to handle Talons the way I'd like."

He's already lost against a wave of them once, and he's in no hurry to repeat the experience.

"If the three of us go, we'll die," Jason says. "We need help."

"On that, we agree."

That seems to stun Jason into a confused silence, and Slade has to wonder what Jason was thinking. Did he expect that Slade would say no, it had to just be the three of them? Just what kind of an idiot does he think Slade is?

"Bruce is strong, but he's not enough. Even at my best, the two of us would be risky."

"Are you forgetting _me?"_ Jason counters. "I can fight too, you know."

"Not on the level he can," Slade answers, nodding to Bruce. "Or even my level. It's not just about skill. It's about being able to sustain the fight, even after multiple opponents. It's about being able to recover from injury."

And Jason, no matter how skilled he is, doesn't heal the way they do.

"So... we agree," Jason says, seemingly making an effort to _overlook_ the insult. "We need more than just the three of us. And... we agree we have to move tonight."

Slade nods, and then sinks back into his bed. The whole thing is going to be a pain—and a huge risk—but what other choice do they have?

It has to be tonight. They can't afford to let the court get any farther ahead of them.


End file.
